


The Amorous Accomplices

by JCMorrigan



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Fanon Names Used for All Characters Without Canon Names, Filling In Show Canon with Book Canon Details, Henchperson's Name is Ainsley, Other, Possible Retcons, Small Animal Death, Tragedy, Villain Shipping, Written As Series Is Aired, but things get better, mild swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-01-15 23:17:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12330810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCMorrigan/pseuds/JCMorrigan
Summary: All the while Count Olaf was putting his nefarious plan into motion to acquire the fortune of the Baudelaires, he didn't notice the romance blossoming among his minions. As Fernald and Ainsley keep their relationship covert, they find it challenged by the problems that arise among villains.As of chapter 1, the Hook-Handed Man will be referred to by his bookverse canon name. All the rest of Count Olaf’s associates will be referred to by names I came up with and assigned to them and should not be taken as canon or even popular fanon (though believe me, I’d be flattered if they were referred to by these names elsewhere). Fic assumes Grim Grotto and the revelations within will be played close to the books; beware of spoilers. This story is meant to run alongside ASOUE without disturbing canon (too badly, anyway). Chapter 3 will be written after that season airs.





	1. A Good Listener

If you asked Fernald what his best qualities were, he would not have thought of himself as an exceptionally good listener. He would instead have cited his acting talent (not entirely accurate) or his skill doing various criminal acts as required by Count Olaf (though with perhaps a twinge of doubt on his own part). In order to save face, he might have even claimed he was excellent at figuring out how to operate machinery such as telephones on the first try. This claim would have been entirely false and would have fooled absolutely no one.

            If you asked a certain other member of Count Olaf’s entourage what Fernald’s best qualities were, however, the first thing they would say was that he listens. He was, in fact, the only person that ever really seemed to listen to them.

 

* * *

 

            Before the Baudelaire children ever came into the life of Count Olaf and when his nefarious schemes were directed toward other matters than their fortune, he and his troupe were based out of a theatre of somewhat good repute located in the arts district of the city. As it turned out, running a theatre and performing shows of dubious quality was an excellent front for criminal activity ranging from arson to petty thievery to actively trying to undermine the largest secret organization dedicated to justice in the known world. Olaf had filled his theater with what he believed to be like-minded people: the bald man Bolton, the white-faced twins Charlotte and Emily, and Fernald, the one who would often come to be referred to as the “hook-handed man” after a gruesome incident best not detailed within this tale.

            Fernald was a rather exceptional case, as he himself had previously been affiliated with the very organization that Olaf had cursed and spit upon. The great schism had brought him to the conclusion that he was far more suited to setting fires than dousing them, and he had resolved never to look back. This didn’t mean he was exceptional at not looking back at all. Some things he had left behind refused to stay in the past, at least in his memory. Some days, he wished he could set fire to thoughts in order to prevent them from ever coming back to haunt him. Olaf, of course, had seen his prior involvements as an asset; a peek into the enemy’s defenses, so to speak. Olaf was a cruel master, but one with whom Fernald felt like he was on the right track.

            He was attached to his teammates as well. Bolton was difficult to get along with at first, but the two of them had found common ground to bond over after some time. Charlotte and Emily, he could never keep a good handle on which was which, but they didn’t mind Fernald calling each by the other’s name so long as he participated in their gossip sessions. Much to Olaf’s annoyance, when the four weren’t involved in a scheme or rehearsing for a masterpiece by “Al Funcoot,” they could often be found playing cards backstage, with the inevitable result that Fernald would lose.

            That was exactly what they were doing, making a point to ignore Olaf, on the day that they heard him step onstage with an unfamiliar voice accompanying him.

            “Who’s he talking to?” Fernald muttered so as not to be heard by Olaf.

            “Dunno,” Bolton replied. “Should we check it out?”

            “It might be a new associate,” Emily theorized.

            “Or maybe an enemy he’s luring into our clutches,” Charlotte suggested quietly.

            “Or a critic who saw our latest show,” Bolton added.

            “Critics actually watch our shows?” Fernald said in disbelief.

            The cards were abandoned and all four villainous associates gathered in the wings to spy on Olaf and the stranger: a tall, auburn-headed person who seemed to be reacting to Olaf’s exposition with apathy.

            “Wow,” Fernald whispered. “She’s beautiful.”

            “She?” Bolton whispered back. “That’s a man.”

            “It’s rather hard to tell from this angle,” Charlotte commented.

            “ – And, of course, you’ll have to meet the rest of them,” Olaf was saying. “They’re all idiots, of course, but they get the job done. Which is really all I’m asking of you. OHHH, HENCHPEOPLE!” Olaf clapped loudly to summon his associates.

            Fernald, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily waited a moment before appearing so as not to give away how closely they’d been watching. “Yeah, boss?” Fernald spoke up, leading the group.

            “I would like to introduce you all to your new associate,” Olaf said dramatically, stepping out in front of the newcomer and gesturing toward them for the group’s benefit. “Avery Orson.”

            “Actually, it’s Ainsley Orlando,” the newcomer corrected in a rather monotone voice that made Bolton suddenly far more sure of his conclusion.

            “Whatever,” Olaf huffed, rolling his eyes. “Avery – “

            “Ainsley…”

            “Will be joining us for all our plots henceforth,” Olaf went on, “as a steadfast ally against those well-read do-gooders.”

            “V.F.D. looks pretty good on paper,” Ainsley stated, “but I’ve become pretty disillusioned with their exclusionary nature and literary elitism.”

            “So, basically, play nice,” Olaf commanded. “Also, Avery – “

            “Ainsley…”

            “ – is part of the theater side of the troupe as well, so hopefully, the Daily Punctilio should be a little nicer to us now that we have fresh talent,” Olaf concluded.

            “So, uh…” Bolton broke in, “you are a guy, right?”

            Fernald smacked one of his hooks against Bolton’s upper arm for that. Fernald, of course, was curious as well, but he wasn’t about to ask a new associate something that rudely.

            “Actually, neither of the binary genders accurately represents me,” Ainsley stated casually, “so if you could all use ‘they’ and ‘their’ pronouns when you refer to me, that’d be great.”

            It was a simple enough request, but one that Bolton would outright ignore over the next month, opting to still refer to Ainsley as “he” and “him.”

            “Well, Ainsley,” Fernald said, stepping forth, “welcome to the – “

            He had extended his right arm before he remembered. Withdrawing the hook, he just gave a shrug. “Team.”

            Ainsley’s eyes followed the hook, noticing the matching one on the other arm. They became incredibly curious, then, about what had happened to put Fernald in such a condition. But they, much like Fernald, weren’t about to simply put a new teammate on the spot.

 

* * *

 

            There are many things that can bring people closer together. Collaborative art projects, shared meals, fighting together against a greater evil, book clubs, classes in special interests, theatre, and assorted villainy, to name a few. Ainsley’s bonds with Fernald, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily were forged mostly through use of the latter two.

            Olaf remained ever the leader, and often times it was hard to tell whether he was proud of the team he’d assembled or whether they made him regret most life decisions that led up to his leadership of them.

            When the Baudelaires came into their lives, it gave them all almost a sense of renewed purpose. The parents of Violet, Klaus, and Sunny were quite hated among the troupe, either through reputation or personal experience, and their passing was not mourned. And now that Olaf had his sights set on obtaining their wealth, the others found themselves onboard a fast-moving train of plotting and scheming that was much more interesting than their pre-Baudelaire days.

            However, Olaf’s initial dealings with the children prompted several absences from the theatre, leaving the other five to their own devices and not much to do other than rehearse the “Al Funcoot” piece known as “The Handsomest Zookeeper.” This was extremely hard to do when the man who had insisted upon casting himself in the titular role was absent, but the others made do by propping up a broom and draping a suit over it, pretending it was Olaf.

            “So when do you think we get to meet the brats?” Bolton asked during a stretch of down time; the twins had taken a break to brew some tea that would become heavily sugared while Ainsley, as the rookie, was tasked with changing the set pieces for the next act. Bolton and Fernald reclined as best they could in the front row seats of the audience.

            “Whenever Olaf decides we can actually get involved again,” Fernald grumbled. “You think he was serious about splitting the fortune with us?”  
            “He better be” was Bolton’s only response.

            After a moment’s silence, Bolton asked, “What do you think of the new guy?”

            “You mean Ainsley?” Fernald replied. “First of all, they’re not a ‘guy.’ Second…they’re all right. They seem to fit in well around here. Good enough actor.”

            “He never shuts up about weird stuff,” Bolton commented.

            “They have a lot to say,” Fernald rephrased. “It’s interesting, sometimes.”

            “Yeah, sometimes.”

            Both were interrupted by a piercing scream. Ainsley, shrieking loudly, pealed onstage. The current set had been meant to emulate a dining room, with a large, crooked wooden table taking center stage. In one feat of unprecedented dexterity, Ainsley leapt on top of this table, positioning themselves at its center and frantically looking around at the stage below, cries petering out into whimpers.

            Bolton stifled a laugh. Fernald, on the other hand, immediately concerned by whatever had Ainsley so terrified, practically jumped up from his seat, rushing onstage at the same time that Charlotte and Emily skidded into the auditorium from the outside hall, nearly spilling their tea. “What’s wrong?” Fernald barked up at Ainsley.

            Ainsley required a few breaths in order to collect themselves before informing Fernald, “There’s a snake backstage…”

            “A snake?” Fernald repeated, and Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily all flinched. “What kind of snake?” Fernald hoped not to hear the response “The deadly kind.”

            “It’s just…it’s a snake,” Ainsley responded, visibly trembling and turning circles and circles on the table to be on guard for it. “And it’s RIGHT THERE!” They pointed at a spot on the stage floor where the perpetrator, a smaller-than-usual garter snake, was curiously making its way out from the wings.

            “That…is a very tiny snake,” Fernald pointed out.

            Ainsley had run out of words, shuffling toward the edge of the table that was furthest from the snake’s current position.

            “You’re not going to be okay until one of us kills it, are you?” Fernald sighed. He wasn’t a fan of snakes either. Had the garter snake been any larger, he would have been slightly nervous.

            Ainsley shook their head, their quivering becoming even more prominent.

            “One minute,” Fernald sighed, storming backstage (to the opposite wing from where the snake was) to root through the troupe’s collection of odd props that could conveniently double as weaponry. A snow shovel caught his eye. It took him a few tries to get his hooks in a grip on the handle, and it tilted at an awkward angle as he carried it back out onstage.

            By this point, Charlotte and Emily had joined Bolton in the front row of the audience. The scene was becoming far more entertaining to them than any Jacquelyn Seieszka film.

            Fernald didn’t just kill the snake with the snow shovel. He smashed it flat repeatedly, absolutely destroying its physical form so that it barely resembled a snake anymore. The WHAM, WHAM, WHAM of the shovel hitting the floor bounced around the acoustically excellent walls of the auditorium. After about a solid two minutes of making sure the garter snake was obliterated from existence, Fernald finally dropped the shovel. “The snake is gone,” he announced, turning back around to face Ainsley.

            Ainsley looked back at him with uncertainty.

            “You can get down off the table,” Fernald encouraged. “It’s dead.”

            Ainsley gingerly clambered down onto the stage as Fernald approached them, driven inexplicably by the desire to make sure Ainsley wasn’t permanently traumatized.

            It should not be necessary to point out that Ainsley was ophidiophobic, and didn’t have a good relationship with most other types of reptiles either. The garter snake’s sudden appearance had shaken them, and though the threat was now neutralized, they were still reeling from the scare. Instinctively, they sought a protective bastion until their heart rate had lowered, and so, without even thinking, they closed the distance between themselves and Fernald and wrapped the latter in a tight embrace, grateful that Fernald had stepped up to get rid of the offending reptile and now seeing Fernald as the safest thing in the entire auditorium.

            Fernald was stunned by this reaction, though he didn’t make any moves to shoo Ainsley away. Instead, after some thought, he gently wrapped his own arms around Ainsley, taking care not to jab them in the back with either hook. “It’s all right,” he repeated. “The snake is gone.”

            Ainsley realized what they were doing just then, letting go of Fernald and backing away in embarrassment. “Can we…pretend that never happened?” they asked sheepishly.

            Fernald nodded, a bit flustered himself. “Sure. That’s…a VERY good idea.”

            “Hey,” Bolton called up from the audience. “Somethin’ going on between you two?”

            “Something?” Fernald replied. “What do you mean SOMETHING? There’s NOTHING!”

            “I was just reacting out of ophidiophobia-driven instinct,” Ainsley added. “There really isn’t any deeper meaning behind what just happened.”

            “Of course there isn’t,” Charlotte said teasingly.

            “Why would we EVER think there was?” Emily added, equally teasingly, and the twins’ smirks were both far too gleeful.

            “The snake is dead,” Fernald growled. “End of discussion.”

            “You know what would happen if you two WERE a thing, right?” Bolton brought up.

            “By ‘thing,’ do you mean a couple?” Ainsley clarified. “Because if you mean that, we’re definitely not.”

            “Olaf would figure out some way to use it against you,” Bolton pointed out. “Get you to do what he wanted.”

            “Then it’s a good thing we’re NOT A COUPLE,” Fernald insisted. He knew quite well how ruthless Olaf could be about exploiting where one’s affections lay; that was why he’d been careful to the extreme about never letting Olaf know he had a sister.

            “Right,” Bolton jeered. “Mr. The-New-Guy-Sure-Is-Pretty.”

            Ainsley turned to Fernald in interest. “You said that?”  
            “NO!” Fernald yelled defensively. “Can we just get back to work already?”  
            Ainsley gave him a shrug that more or less meant “yes.”

            “And somebody clean up that dead snake!” Fernald barked as he stormed backstage.

 

* * *

 

            Ainsley’s downtown apartment wasn’t overly lavish, nor was it representative of one living in destitution. It was small, but for one person living alone, that made sense, Fernald thought as he glanced around it. He felt incredibly out of place there, and wondered how he’d even gotten to that location. Of course, he knew how: it just struck him as a bit unbelievable.

            Olaf’s scheme to marry Violet Baudelaire had gone belly-up. Now the entire troupe was on the run from the law, though the law hardly had any idea where to start looking for them or what their names even were. All five had felt relatively safe hiding out in their own abodes, though when the phone had rung earlier that afternoon, Fernald had admittedly jumped, fearing the law had already tracked him down (and not realizing that the first thing they would do was knock on his door, not call him on the telephone to try to arrest him via audio). It had taken him, as usual, a few minutes to figure out how to answer the phone. No matter how many times he did it, he seemed to always mix up the receiver and the mouthpiece; it simply didn’t click as a natural pattern in his brain. When he finally did get it turned right way round, he practically yelled “HELLO?”  
            “Is this Fernald?” a familiar voice had asked.

            “Who is this?” Fernald snapped in response. “Who’s calling me?”  
            “This is Ainsley,” the voice replied. “I kinda want your help with something.”

            And that had begun the conversation that led Fernald downtown to Ainsley’s living space.

            “So do you want any coffee or anything?” Ainsley offered.

            “No,” Fernald said brisky. “I’m good. Thank you.”  
            “You can totally sit on the couch if you want,” Ainsley continued.

            Fernald took them up on that one, settling in on the beige couch. “So what did you want my help with?” he asked.

            “I actually have an audition in a couple hours,” Ainsley informed him, “and I wanted a second opinion on if I was emoting properly in the soliloquy I prepared for it.”

            “You’re actually doing a show the boss didn’t write?” Fernald said incredulously. “Which one?”

            “Equus.”

            “Isn’t that the one where the kid gets turned on by horses?”  
            “It’s actually more complicated than that,” Ainsley explained. “It’s basically a critical analysis of spirituality in modern society.”

            “I’ll, uh…I’ll take your word for it.” Fernald settled back into the couch. “So, uh…did you invite the rest of the troupe over, or…?”  
            “Just you, actually,” Ainsley admitted. “I just think you’re probably the most appropriate person to judge my delivery and give me an honest opinion.” That wasn’t quite true, but Ainsley didn’t feel it quite appropriate to let on to Fernald that he was the person they felt the most comfortable around, between him using their correct pronouns and his actions during the day of the great garter snake invasion.

            “Well, let’s hear it,” Fernald encouraged.

            Ainsley momentarily wondered if inviting Fernald to review their audition was a mistake. Watching him watch them was giving them classic symptoms of stage fright, which Ainsley found odd, as they generally didn’t have such a condition, even in front of audiences of hundreds. Perhaps it was because of their amicability toward each other, the fact that Ainsley actually knew the lone member of their audience this time, that was causing Ainsley’s heart to beat faster and palms to sweat. They closed their eyes momentarily in order to find the beginning of what they’d memorized, then took a breath, opened their eyes, and began to recite.

            They didn’t get two lines in when the phone rang.

            “Sorry,” Ainsley sighed. “I have to get that.”

            “Go ahead,” Fernald replied.

            He watched Ainsley walk into the kitchen to answer the phone; the door offered a clear view of them the whole while. “Hello?” they greeted, picking up the receiver. “Yeah, this…you what? You totally couldn’t have called at a worse time. Okay, so I have this audition for Equus in a couple hours and…I don’t really…no, I…that’s not…can you at least let me talk? Okay, fine. I’ll be there. Yes, I’ll tell them. All of them. No, I won’t forget – his name is Bolton. And mine’s Ainsley. I said I’ll BE there.” They slammed the receiver back to the telephone base with a show of force Fernald had never seen before. Then, continuing to surprise Fernald, they picked the receiver up and slammed it angrily back into place several more times. Fernald had a pretty good idea of who had called.

            He got up from the couch, crossing tentatively into the kitchen. “That was the boss?”  
            “Yeah,” Ainsley confirmed, still staring daggers at the phone.

            “Let me guess. He needs us for a scheme. Right now.”

            “Yeah.”

            After an awkward silence, Ainsley turned to face Fernald, obviously trying to stuff their anger away. “Fernald?”

            “What?”

            “How do you spell ‘coroner’?”

 

* * *

 

            Somehow, the entire troupe managed to shake off the authorities that were tailing their van, despite the van being emblazoned with a definitely misspelled “CORNER,” a testament to why Fernald should never be asked to help spell anything.

            Fernald, Ainsley, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily ended up holing up at a rundown motel, awaiting Olaf’s call and further instructions. They booked four rooms, with Charlotte and Emily sharing one. They then congregated in Fernald’s room, all five cramming onto the bed, in order to start up a new card game.

            There were only so many hours that can be killed playing cards. “Maybe he forgot about us this time,” Bolton theorized.

            “If only we were so lucky,” Charlotte griped.

            Emily elbowed her sister in the side. “Without Olaf, where are we?”

            “We’re here, is where we are,” Fernald grumbled, playing the absolute most wrong card he could have picked. “Playing cards in a dingy motel where I know I saw at least three spiders in the bathroom.” A thought occurred to him. “Ainsley…you aren’t afraid of spiders, are you?”  
            “Not as much as snakes,” Ainsley replied, intentionally picking a worse card than Fernald’s play. It hadn’t taken them long to catch onto the fact that Fernald usually lost at such games, and they felt somewhat piteous toward him for that, hence the beginning of an intentional losing streak on Ainsley’s end.

            “Well, if nothing else, we’ll at least get treated to another show of Fernald beating the spiders to death with a toothbrush,” Emily joked.

            The last card was played and the score tallied. “You know, Ainsley,” Bolton commented, “you’re really bad at this.”

            “I know,” Ainsley responded nonchalantly. “And totally not on purpose, either.”

            “Another hand?” Charlotte asked.

            This was met with four groans; everyone was sick of playing. “I’m going to bed,” Bolton announced as the group scrambled off Fernald’s bed.

            “I’m going to go find coffee,” Ainsley added. “I have seriously needed coffee for hours.”

            “It’s…” Fernald checked the clock. “Eleven at night. And you’re getting COFFEE?”

            “I’ll have decaf,” Ainsley said with a shrug.

            “It’s already eleven?” Charlotte remarked. “That’s far past bedtime, if you ask me. What do you think, Emi – “

            Emily collapsed onto Fernald’s bed face-first, snoring.

            Bolton had to scoop her up to carry her back to the room she shared with Charlotte. “If he calls at two in the morning,” he informed everyone, “I’m seriously going to think about punching him in the face when we see him again.”

            The group parted ways, and Fernald lay down in his solitary bed. At first, he considered simply going to sleep. It was, after all, very late. Yet he made no move to detach his hooks, as he usually would before lying down for the night. He wondered if it was reflection upon all the excitement of the Dr. Montgomery incident that kept him from dousing his mental light.

            Then he wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that Ainsley had said they weren’t going to sleep just yet either.

            He found himself leaving his room to make his way to the lounge. A small, weathered coffee machine was situated in the middle of a counter, free for use by patrons of the motel. Fernald guessed Ainsley had been here in order to obtain the coffee, but they were long gone by that point. Perhaps they’d gone back to sleep.

            Crossing back through the lobby, Fernald stopped to ask the hostess, “Have…you seen a very tall person with reddish hair come through this way with a cup of coffee?”

            The hostess nodded. “She actually went out front of the building. There are a couple chairs set up out there.”

            “They’re not a…” Fernald shook his head. “Never mind.”

            He exited the motel into the dark night to see a patch of rickety-looking chairs set up on the lawn in a semblance of guest convenience. One of them was occupied. Fernald reconsidered joining the familiar silhouette for a moment; perhaps they just wanted to be alone. Then again, there was never any harm in asking, was there?

            “Mind if I sit?” he asked as he approached Ainsley.

            “Go ahead,” Ainsley replied, and Fernald took the chair next to him.

            There was silence for a moment as Ainsley sipped from their steaming, chipped cup and Fernald rummaged around his mind for conversation topics. “So,” he said at last. “Some day, huh?”

            “Yeah,” Ainsley replied, rather miffed as they recalled the events. “Because missing my potential break into serious acting in favor of walking into a plethora of snakes and other assorted reptiles was totally how I wanted to spend my day.”

            “Well, look at it this way,” Fernald pointed out. “You might have missed your audition, but you brought down the house as Nurse Lucafont.”

            It was hard to tell in the dark, but somehow Fernald was still able to detect the faint smile that replaced Ainsley’s disgruntled expression upon hearing that. “You weren’t bad either.”

            It was then that Fernald realized, for the first time in hours, that they were still wearing their disguises from earlier in the day. He couldn’t imagine what the hostess must have thought of the entire troupe walking in dressed as though they were the cast of a forensics-based TV program. “You look pretty good in that,” he said softly.

            “What?”

            “What?” Fernald feigned ignorance. “So…what were you thinking about out here?”

            “Lots of things.” Ainsley paused to take another long sip. “I was actually considering the nature of romantic love.”

            Fernald didn’t even think to wonder what could have put Ainsley on that train of thought, even though by that point, it would have been obvious to any outsider. “What about it?”

            “I was wondering if it’s even real,” Ainsley explained. “Sometimes I think it’s all just a societal construct designed to fool us into taking on cultural roles that are largely patriarchal. Sometimes I think it’s actually one of the greatest mysteries and most powerful forces in existence.”

            “You…ever been in love?”  
            “Not yet. But I think I’ve been pretty close a few times.” Another sip of coffee. “What’s your take on the subject?”  
            “I don’t even know,” Fernald admitted. “I guess I think it’s real. I’ve felt…things. About people. I don’t know as much about this kind of stuff as you do.”

            “I think you do,” Ainsley corrected. “You just word it differently.”

            It was then that Fernald failed to exhibit the self-control he knew he should have had. Listening to Ainsley speak had only reminded him of all the things he appreciated about his co-worker, and he suddenly felt compelled to demonstrate this. He leaned over in the dark, briefly kissing Ainsley on the cheek.

            The coffee cup hit the ground, its remaining contents spilling.

            Fernald was hit with the full realization of what he’d just done. Ainsley had turned to face him, and he could make out an expression of bewilderment on their face. “I don’t know why I just did that,” he sputtered, flummoxed. “Do you hear Bolton calling me? I think I hear Bolton calling me.” He rose from his seat and turned to scurry back to the motel. “I should go – “

            “Fernald.”

            A hand landed softly on his shoulder from behind; Ainsley had risen as well. Fernald had to work up the nerve to turn back around and look them in the eye.

            “It’s when I’m with you that I think the idea of romantic love isn’t a total fallacy,” Ainsley confessed.

            “Wait, really?” Fernald replied.

            “You’re the only one who really listens to me,” Ainsley told him. They leaned forward a stitch, and Fernald caught on, stepping closer to meet them so that Ainsley could gently press their lips to Fernald’s. Their hands sought out and caressed the sides of Fernald’s face, and Fernald found himself rather lamenting that he didn’t have hands to do the same; the best he could do was just wrap his arms around Ainsley’s waist as he returned the kiss more forcefully.

            “Olaf can’t know,” he said when they parted from the kiss.

            “Olaf won’t know,” Ainsley reassured him.

            “NONE OF THEM can know.”

            “They won’t.”

            They stepped back from each other. “It’s probably midnight,” Ainsley realized.

            “And nobody knows how long we have to get any sleep before the boss calls,” Fernald sighed. “Just…one more, first?”

            They kept the kiss brief, then walked back into the motel side by side.

            “Goodnight, Ainsley,” Fernald said earnestly.

            “Sweet dreams, Fernald.”

            They entered their respective rooms, across the hall from each other, and as each closed the door, each took a moment to lean back on it and reflect in disbelief on what had just taken place.

            To Olaf’s credit, he didn’t call at two in the morning. He called at three.

 

* * *

 

            Shortly thereafter, the troupe found themselves ferrying Count Olaf across Lake Lachrymose. While Bolton, Ainsley, Fernald, Charlotte, and Emily crammed themselves into a small rowboat, Olaf fixed a slightly smaller rowboat behind them and decided immediately he wasn’t going to be doing any of the work whatsoever. Charlotte and Emily sat up front while Fernald was positioned in the rear of the boat between Bolton and Ainsley, the latter two of whom were rowing to propel the entire entourage forward. This was at the behest of Olaf, or, at the very least, he had wanted “Gordon and Avery” to do the rowing.

            “So the Montgomery thing was a bust,” Olaf rambled, as much to himself as to anyone else. “At least he’s dead, and if there’s one thing we didn’t need, it was Montgomery Montgomery figuring out our plan. I still can’t believe that idiot thought I was from the Herpetological Society. Given his reputation, I’m surprised he didn’t figure out who I was right away and make up some lie about thinking I was a spy from some cold-sore organization to throw me off the trail.” Then he paused. “…He didn’t just DO that to me, did he?”

            Olaf continued to rant, to the point where Fernald was basically tuning him out. He noticed when the boat seemed to take a sudden tilt to the side. Bolton’s rowing was still steadfast, but Ainsley was flagging. Fernald took one look at Ainsley and knew something was wrong; they were bent over the oar, face gone completely pale.

            “Are you okay?” Fernald whispered.

            “No,” Ainsley whispered back. “I’m trying really hard not to throw up over the side of the boat.”

            “What, you’re seasick?”

            “It’s a large lake, remember? I’m large-lakesick.”

            “I swear you’ve told us you’ve been on boats before!” Fernald hissed.

            “Bigger boats,” Ainsley corrected. “Boats where I can’t actually feel the water…rocking.”

            “You going to be able to row?”

            “No…”

            “Give it to me. Now.”

            Ainsley nodded, pursing their lips together to be sure that the next thing that came out of their mouth was words and not vomit. Both Fernald and Ainsley knew far better than to stand up in the boat, an action that would surely take the whole operation overboard and make the others not only soaked but very, very crabby. They did their best to shuffle past each other, switching places. Once Fernald was settled on the edge of the boat, it took him a couple tries to position his hooks in such a manner that he had a definite grip on the oar, but at last he found a comfortable hold and took up the job of boat propulsion.

            “What are you doing?” Bolton asked.

            “Switching,” Fernald answered sternly.

            “Yeah, but WHY?”

            “Because I want to row the boat,” Fernald insisted.

            “You’re just rowing because HE’S too lazy to,” Bolton accused, indicating Ainsley, who was at that point settling in to lie on the bottom of the boat between Bolton and Fernald.

            “They’re not a ‘he,’” Fernald growled.

            “I’m right here,” Ainsley reminded them both. “You can actually, you know, talk to me.”

            “Sorry,” Fernald muttered.

            “Will you all quit arguing and ROW THE BOAT?” Olaf yelled from his position behind.

            “That’s exactly what we’re doing, boss!” Fernald called back. He then looked down to Ainsley, asking softly, “Any better?”  
            “Yeah,” Ainsley replied, shutting their eyes tightly.

            “Just keep your eyes closed,” Fernald advised, “and try not to think about the waves rocking the boat back and forth, or the water rippling underneath us, or the – “

            “FERNALD.” Ainsley had opened one eye to glare up at him.

            “Probably not helping. Right. Sorry.”

 

* * *

 

            The Captain Sham gambit was twice as convoluted as Plan Stephano. The troupe put on their best performances (which isn’t saying a lot) when it came to uniting Olaf and Josephine in a romantic relationship that was about as real as the second elevator shaft in 667 Dark Avenue.

            From there, it was a madcap rush between fencing the Baudelaires in at Josephine’s cliffside abode and making sure everything at the Anxious Clown restaurant went as wrong as it could.

            As Arthur Poe and Count Olaf, still in the guise of Captain Sham, sat in the main seating area of the small dining facility, the troupe had the run of the kitchen, making sure their captive waiter Larry didn’t give the game away by hiding messages in the food he was to bring to the Baudelaires. Larry, for his part, had either believed the quintet to be incredibly stupid or hadn’t counted on them being familiar with the secret V.F.D. methods of communication.

            “You’ll never defeat us,” Larry asserted. “You can surround us. You can throw us out of windows. You can threaten us and make us cook for you – “

            “Sorry to interrupt, but what’s the soup of the day?”

            Larry, Charlotte, Emily, and Bolton’s heads all whipped to look at Ainsley, stupefied that they’d made such a non sequitur request. Fernald, for his part, was unfazed.

            “Well?” Fernald barked. “Answer the question!”

            “It’s clam chowder,” Larry growled. “But I don’t see what that has to do with – “

            “You’re OUR hostage now,” Fernald insisted. “And that means you do what we say. And right now, I say you MAKE THE DAMN SOUP!”

            He stole a quick glance at Ainsley, whose face had lit up.

            “And while you’re at it,” Fernald ordered, “get me one of those Cheer-Up Cheeseburgers.”

            “Don’t put any secret messages in that one, either,” Ainsley added.

 

* * *

 

            This wasn’t to say that everything between Fernald and Ainsley was forged of complete accord. They had their share of arguments. For instance, one was had the night before, when Fernald, hoping to divert attention from the time the two spent together, had clearly assigned Ainsley the task of guarding Larry, and Ainsley, thinking the twins had it under control, had simply gotten into the car with the rest of the troupe. Then there was later that very same day at the Anxious Clown, when Fernald found Ainsley and Larry having a conversation about pasta puttanesca. Then again, it wasn’t so much a conversation as Larry bewilderedly listening to one of his captors describe a pasta recipe he already knew how to make to him and wondering how he’d gone from being the troupe’s dish-washing servant to this.

            “STOP BEING FRIENDLY TO HIM!” Fernald snapped at Ainsley, having flashbacks of when he’d been less than cruel to Sunny Baudelaire and how well that had turned out.

            Ainsley fell silent, looking away. They absolutely hated being snapped at by Fernald; it hit right in the heart.

            The telephone rang. Neither Ainsley, who was still dismayed from being shouted at by Fernald, nor Fernald, who was at that moment wondering if he’d been too curt with Ainsley, thought to actually stop Larry from answering it. “Anxious Clown Restaurant,” Larry greeted halfheartedly. “This is Larry, your waiter.”

            “Larry, I don’t have much time,” a muffled voice, likely disguised by a cloth placed over the mouthpiece of the connected phone, said over the line. “The Quagmires are alive.”

            “Alive?” Larry said in disbelief. “Where?”

            “The tunnel system should have taken them to the depths of Peru.”

            “Peru?”

            “We haven’t heard anything on the Quagmire children. Are they still safe?”  
            “Secure for the moment,” Larry hissed, “but you need to know – “

            “So are you gonna stop him?” Ainsley grunted.

            Fernald realized letting the hostage use the telephone may have been a fatal mistake. He rushed to overtake Larry, hooking the phone cord and yelling into the mouthpiece, “WHO IS THIS?” His usual telephone illiteracy overtook him, and he peered into, then listened at the mouthpiece, trying to remember how those cursed devices actually worked. He fumbled with the receiver for a moment before giving up on it completely. “Hello?” he yelled at the phone. “HELLO!” He then bashed the phone a couple times with one hook. “How does it WORK? HELLO!”

            Larry simply stared on in fear and disbelief.

            Fernald spun to face Ainsley. “HELP ME WITH THIS THING!”

            “No,” Ainsley replied, not making eye contact.

            “WHY NOT?”

            “Because you yelled at me.”

            “Listen.” Fernald dropped the receiver and stormed toward Ainsley. “We don’t have time for fooling around, making nice with the hostages!”

            “We don’t have time to waste trying to figure out how phones work, either.”

            “WHAT?”

            The argument that followed was lengthy, with Fernald’s volume steadily increasing while Ainsley put more and more creativity into the insults they hurled at Fernald in return.

            “YOU THINK THIS IS SOME KIND OF GAME?”

            “If it is, you’re a pawn with delusions of grandeur of being a dictatorial king.”

            “I BET YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW TO PLAY CHESS!”

            Larry tried to use his captors’ distracted state to edge toward the door, but Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily all planted themselves in front of it so he couldn’t make an escape attempt.

            “The only reason,” Fernald huffed, finally running out of steam, “I didn’t want you to play nice with him is because that’s how you end up with tape on your mouth, giving the hostage a free ride all the way down to the theater. I know this from PERSONAL EXPERIENCE.” He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “Sorry I yelled.”

            “Sorry I called you an ignorant example of the sheeple that are slowly poisoning our already toxic society. Among other things.”

            “You’re forgiven,” Fernald relented.

            “Are those two…?” Larry tried to whisper.

            “We’re not a couple,” Fernald and Ainsley said as one in a knee-jerk reaction.

            “Of course not,” Charlotte said smugly.

            “Whyever would we think you were?” Emily said even more smugly.

            Fernald and Ainsley exchanged a nervous glance, then looked away from each other, both wondering if they’d gotten a bit too obvious.

 

* * *

 

            The Captain Sham sham sank like a rowboat that had just been pulverized by a cannonball. However, the entire troupe escaped once again, speaking to Mr. Poe’s ability to actually corner known villains.

            “Where are we going now, boss?” Fernald asked as they all loaded up into a getaway car.

            “WE aren’t going anywhere,” Olaf replied, briefly glancing into the rearview mirror, which was pointed down at his face rather than at the back window as is actually safe when driving in heavy traffic, so he could wink at himself. “I’m going to contact an old ally. You’re going to wait until I call you for further instructions.”

            While Olaf made haste toward a town calling itself “Paltryville,” the other five returned to the city. Bolton hid out in his usual apartment, and the twins found their house in the suburbs to be secure. When it came to Fernald and Ainsley, however, splitting up wasn’t in the cards.

            “I never saw your place,” Ainsley pointed out.

            “I don’t really think you want to,” Fernald replied.

            They ended up at Fernald’s apartment anyway, and Fernald found himself somewhat self-conscious of the mess it had been left in. Hardly anything was clean, and nothing was where it was supposed to be, with dishes on the bookshelf and socks in the silverware drawer. The entire apartment ran on a premise known to many as “organized chaos.” Fernald knew where everything was, and it was exactly where he needed it to be. He suspected Ainsley wouldn’t see eye-to-eye with him on this, however.

            “I know,” he sighed. “It’s a mess.”

            “It’s bigger than my place,” Ainsley pointed out.

            They spent the afternoon playing various card games. Fernald was astonished that Ainsley lost every single hand, thinking it miraculously that he’d somehow found the one person in the world who was worse at card games than he was – though again, this was an intentional act on Ainsley’s part. And Ainsley was more than happy to owe Fernald a back rub for a lost game.

            After some discussion, they decided it was still too soon to be sharing sleeping quarters, but at the same time, they did want to remain together for as much time as they had, knowing it wouldn’t be much before Olaf called them into action once more. Fernald decided to spend the night on the couch, letting Ainsley have the bed in the adjacent room.

            Thinking Ainsley was settling into the bed for the night, Fernald detached his hooks, huddling under a spare blanket on the couch, which was old but not uncomfortable. No sooner had he closed his eyes when he heard a voice asking, “Can I make a cup of coffee?”

            “It’s ten-thirty,” Fernald replied, opening his eyes and sitting up. “So I assume you want decaf.”

            He talked Ainsley through the locations of the coffee grounds and filters in the kitchen, as well as the mugs, which were kept in a cabinet under the television. As Ainsley watched the coffee drip into the pot, Fernald asked, “What are you thinking about?”, knowing Ainsley was always thinking about something and suspecting their mind was going into overdrive if they needed coffee that late at night.

            “I was just thinking about evil,” Ainsley admitted. “I always thought good and evil were another binary that people didn’t really belong to one or the other of. Morality isn’t black-and-white. It’s more like a grayish color. A lot of people do bad things for good reasons, and a lot of people do good things for bad reasons. Then there’s us. We do bad things for bad reasons, but really, so far, we’ve just been doing what we need to do in order to get ahead. We’re looking out for ourselves, and people like us need to do that.”

            “But?” Fernald encouraged, sensing doubt in Ainsley’s voice.

            “I’m starting to wonder if we’re taking it too far,” they admitted. “I was cool with Dr. Montgomery dying and all, but Josephine wasn’t really a threat to us. I also didn’t actually see Dr. Montgomery GET killed, which, all considered, shouldn’t really change things, but it still made me wonder if I’m actually becoming evil.” The coffee maker beeped; Ainsley removed the pot to pour a cup. “And I thought I’d be cool with it if I was, but maybe I’m not.” They paused, momentarily afraid to look Fernald in the eye. “You probably think that means I don’t belong with the rest of the team, then. Or you.”

            “I don’t think that,” Fernald assured them, lightly touching the end of his arm to their forearm. “Good and evil are complicated. I never thought people were one or the other either. I always thought people were more like…chef salads, with good and evil mixed up in them.”

            “Even Olaf?”  
            “Yes. He’s got some good in him SOMEwhere. Just not where any of us can see it. I know I have a lot of good and evil mixed up in me. I’m fine with it. And I think you’re the same way. I don’t know exactly HOW good or HOW evil you are. But I like you. I always love hearing you talk about stuff like this.”

            Ainsley turned to face Fernald, smiling unsurely. “And I totally love that you listen.”

            They kissed briefly. “I like you so much,” Ainsley continued, and they kissed again after that. “But what happens next time – “

            “Let’s not think about next time yet,” Fernald decided before a third kiss ensued.

            That seemed to bring Ainsley to a realization. “You always listen to me,” they reiterated, backing off a bit. “Maybe I don’t listen to you enough. I want to know more about you. How’d you get involved with Olaf, anyway?”  
            And in that moment, Fernald was tempted to tell Ainsley everything he could never have told Olaf. About Fiona. About the true nature of the V.F.D. schism and what led him to make his choice. He was ready to begin speaking of all such things, and very nearly poured all of his secrets out in a manner similar to how Ainsley had poured the contents of the coffee pot into a cup, when the phone rang, and they both knew who was calling.

            Fernald looked at the ends of his arms in a panic; answering the phone would be twice as difficult without his hooks, and it would take him a bit of time to reattach them, time during which Olaf would become grouchier and grouchier. Ainsley knew exactly what Fernald was thinking, asking, “Do you need me to hold the phone?”  
            “Yes…”

            In an instant, Fernald was set up in front of the telephone, with Ainsley holding the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” Fernald greeted.

            “Ferdinand?” Olaf said in disbelief. “Usually it takes you longer to answer a phone.”

            Fernald exchanged a quick and somewhat anxious look with Ainsley. “Had to get it right sometime,” he said sheepishly. “So, whaddaya need, boss?”

            “I’m at the Lucky Smells Lumbermill in Paltryville,” Olaf explained, “and they just so happen to be in need of a new foreman. One with HANDS, mind you. Being the brilliant casting director that I am, I know you’re perfect for the job. Though, like I said, bring hands. We need a little…ACCIDENT to happen here at the mill.”

            “I’ll be right there,” Fernald promised.

            “And hurry it up,” Olaf insisted.

            “I am literally headed out the door as we speak!” Fernald replied, following in his boss’ footsteps of confusing the definitions of “literally” and “figuratively.” He nodded to Ainsley, who took the cue to hang up the phone.

            “The boss needs me in Paltryville,” Fernald explained. “Now.”

            “You need me to come along?” Ainsley asked.

            Fernald didn’t just refuse because Olaf hadn’t specified for anyone else to accompany him. Olaf’s emphasis on the word “accident” rang in his ears, coupled with Ainsley’s uncertainty about murdering Josephine Anwhistle. “I’ll be fine,” he said simply. “This shouldn’t take long, hopefully.”

            “I’ll wait for you,” Ainsley promised.

 

* * *

 

            Of course, villains, even villains with a fair amount of good and evil mixed together in them, are as subject to misery as those who are not villains. No matter how much sugar you put in your tea, you cannot escape the impending rocks that life places beneath your wheels.

            However, this also means that villains are just as apt as those who are not villains to come by events that are fortunate, though for those who are their victims, these events are usually seen from the opposite point of view entirely. Sometimes, however, they simply find something as significant as someone to talk to, or someone to listen to. And from a certain point of view, that isn’t so unfortunate after all.


	2. A Troubled Conscience

One might think it is a simple thing to tell the difference between good and evil. However, like most things in life that are split into binary, the idea that everything must be one or the other is an illusion. Most people, events, and things fall somewhere in between the two, and anyone reading this particular story has seen at least two examples of that phenomenon.

            An equally ambivalence-inspiring conundrum is the difference between good news and bad news. It is incredibly simple to think that when one hears a new piece of information, it must either inspire auspicious (a word that here means “looking forward to good things that must be coming”) feelings or utter dismay. In reality, it is not only possible but the most common outcome to hear or read news that makes you feel both auspicious and dismayed. For example, if you hear that a fanfiction you particularly enjoy has been updated, you might be happy to think that you will get to read more of the story you liked, but grumpy at having to carve out time in your busy schedule to read it only to find that the latest chapter leaves loose ends hanging that may not be resolved for a year or more.

            For another example, when the telephone rang in Ainsley Orlando’s apartment, and Ainsley did the sensible thing and answered it, they were greeted with similarly conflicted feelings. Though, of course, they were first greeted with a greeting:

            “Ainsley?”

            They recognized the voice immediately; “Fernald?”

            “I, uh…I missed you.”

            “So did I. I mean I missed you, not that I missed myself. Did you take care of what you meant to do?”

            Ainsley could already envision Fernald shaking his head in the negative. “They foiled us again. Also, the boss’s girlfriend got burned to a crisp. I think I was more disturbed by that than he was, though. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it on the way.”

            “On the…way…?”

            “Right!” Fernald crowed. “That’s the good news! The boss found out exactly where the Baudelaires are going, and he said this time, he needs all of us with him to back up his latest scheme!”

            On one hand, it was good news, Ainsley thought. It was good news because it meant they would be reunited with Fernald, who they felt very strong affection for, as well as several other villainous actors with whom Ainsley felt they had cultivated a friendship. It also meant a strike against the Baudelaires and therefore V.F.D., the organization that had vexed Ainsley since they learned of its existence. However, it was also bad news. First of all, because the leader of said villainous actors, one Count Olaf, could be a very lenient boss but had a penchant for yelling at those he felt had disappointed him. And second, because as much as Ainsley wanted to harm V.F.D. in even such a small way as delivering the inheritors of the fortunes of two of its most prominent members to Count Olaf, they had a feeling that it was going to involve deeds that were increasingly more vicious than Ainsley had expected when first they had joined Olaf. Ainsley had been glad to have some time to themselves to consider the death of Josephine, to which they had indirectly contributed. They had thought it over and over, trying to grow more comfortable with the idea of it with minimal success. As time went on, Ainsley knew they would only be faced with more of these deeds and less time to reconcile them.

            How did Fernald have such an easy time of it? And did it say something terrible that Ainsley had fallen for someone who had such an easy time of doing evil?

            But Ainsley knew they couldn’t turn the job down. Olaf wouldn’t let them get away with that. And more importantly, they wanted to see Fernald again.

            “Where are we going?” Ainsley asked.

            “Some boarding school,” Fernald answered. “Apparently the boss has a history with the place. Can you be ready in an hour? I’ll come by and pick you up.”

            “I can be ready,” Ainsley said, though they meant that in the barest physical and literal sense. “I’ll see you then.”

            “Great! Though, you, uh…when we pick the others up, we’ll need to, you know, not give away that we’re together.”

            “You drive, and I’ll ride in the back seat?”

            “That’ll work,” Fernald resolved. “Though we’ll have the first leg of the drive to ourselves. Anyway, see you then?”

            “See you then.”

            When the other end of the line went dead, Ainsley found themselves processing the news that was between good and bad, trying to filter out the worries that stirred up their conscience and focus on the upside.

            Fernald was worth a lot, after all.

 

* * *

 

            Camping out underneath the bleachers of an ill-kempt school stadium with no bedding but some stray spirit banners was par for the course for Olaf’s troupe. It wasn’t the most uncomfortable arrangement the group had endured. It ranked perhaps fifth.

            Fernald hadn’t been able to sleep those other four times, either.

            He sat up and looked around the area. Olaf, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily seemed to have no trouble drifting off on the hard ground. Ainsley, however, was doing a very bad job at disguising restlessness. They spent about thirty seconds in one position before twisting into another, trying to find any way to be comfortable.

            Fernald wondered if he should say something. After all, the drive together had been short before the others had to be loaded into the ever-more-battered car, and he and Ainsley hadn’t had much time to talk. If they were both awake, there was no sense in wasting the opportunity. But if Ainsley was dead set on sleeping –

            “You can’t sleep either.”

            Fernald was slightly startled to hear Ainsley call him out. “No,” he muttered. “It’s impossible.” He waved an arm in Olaf, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily’s general direction. “Except for those four, apparently.”

            Ainsley slowly pulled themselves into a sitting position, looking Fernald in the eye as much as was possible in the darkness. “You want to do literally anything else?”

            “We still haven’t really caught up,” Fernald pointed out.

            A few moments saw them entering the stadium proper, beginning a slow tread around its perimeter. “So tell me about where you went,” Ainsley prompted.

            “It used to be a thriving town, apparently,” Fernald explained. “They call it ‘Paltryville.’ It all burned down a while ago. Pretty sure the boss was involved with that somehow, but I never got a chance to ask him about it. The only things still running are the lumber mill and the eye doctor.”

            “That’s a bizarre combination.”

            “Isn’t it? It gets weirder. The Baudelaires ended up employed by the mill.”

            “I feel like that breaks a lot of child labor laws,” Ainsley commented.

            “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Fernald said with a nod. “Anyway…”

            He recapitulated the whole story, from Georgina Orwell to Shirley to hypnotism to devastating accidents.

            “…But like I said, I think I was more concerned with Georgina than the boss was,” Fernald concluded. “I’d like to say I’m surprised, but really, no, I’m not.”

            Ainsley was silent in response.

            “Are…you okay?” Fernald asked. “You’re thinking very hard about something, I know it. What are you thinking about?”

            “The whole point…” Ainsley said gingerly, “was to get the Baudelaires to kill someone so they would be fired from the mill. So that one man you brought up would have had to die for everything to work out.”

            “Yeah,” Fernald confirmed, “just like Montgomery Montgomery and his assistant and Josephine.”

            “Doesn’t that…start to bother you a little?”

            Fernald needed a moment to think it over. “Well, killing people isn’t exactly a happy thing. I don’t get a thrill from it or anything. I think the boss does. But it’s about breaking eggs, right? To make an omelette. At least this time, it wasn’t going to be anyone I knew.”

            “Anyone you knew?” Ainsley repeated. “Are you saying…you knew Josephine? And Montgomery?”

            “Well, not closely,” Fernald admitted. “It was more like…I knew of them. It’s really a complicated situation.” Was now the time to spell out his own history with V.F.D.? Somehow, it didn’t feel quite right. Fernald could tell Ainsley was troubled, and not only would not be receptive to hearing a long story, but might actually become more troubled by the processing of it. “What about you? Are you bothered?”  
            “I can’t stop thinking about Josephine,” Ainsley admitted. “I know it’s what we had to do, and I don’t think I would have liked her if I knew her, since, y’know, she was V.F.D. and all, but something doesn’t feel right about it. It’s not like I didn’t know what I’d be signing up for. I just didn’t realize what it would be like in reality.”

            “Maybe we won’t have to go that far again?” Fernald attempted halfheartedly.

            “I think we both know you don’t mean that,” Ainsley stated solemnly, “and you’re saying something you don’t actually believe in order to put a metaphorical bandage on my current moral confusion. I really appreciate that you care so much about my mental state, but I’d rather face reality right now.”

            “All right,” Fernald said with a heavy sigh. “Then I think you know the truth is we’re going to have to go farther.”

            “I was afraid of that. You said you knew of Josephine. When Olaf pushed her overboard, did you feel anything?”

            “Only a little,” Fernald said honestly. “Not as much as you probably want me to.”

            “Is it me or is it you?”

            Fernald shook his head in confusion. “Is what who?”

            “Am I having emotional turmoil right now because I don’t measure up to being able to commit the same deeds as the rest of you,” Ainsley asked, “or because what the rest of you are doing is too wrong?”

            “I’d like to think we’re doing what we need to,” Fernald said in response. “It can’t be any problem with you. There’s nothing wrong with you!”

            Ainsley desperately wanted to say the same thing to Fernald. They found, however, that the words didn’t quite ring true. Until they had this matter of morality sorted out, they couldn’t say for sure if Fernald was situated on the right place in the spectrum. That didn’t mean, however, that Ainsley would or even could stop caring about Fernald. So, instead of saying “There’s nothing wrong with you,” which would have been more truthful coming from a less troubled conscience over the crimes Fernald had committed, Ainsley chose a more accurate phrase: “I want you to know that in these trying times, you have a positive outlook that I really can’t help but admire, and that makes you kind of magnetic.”

            “I can’t say anyone’s ever said that to me before,” Fernald replied, clearly flattered.

            “You’re the only one who’s ever said there’s nothing wrong with me,” Ainsley replied. “Anyway, you keep saying we’re doing what we need to do. What exactly do we need here?”

            “We need – well, we need – “ Fernald sighed. “Maybe it’s less about needing something and more about belonging somewhere. This is the only way I feel like I do. What about you?”

            “It’s the same,” Ainsley admitted. “Anyway, I think – “

            The bright beam of a flashlight pierced the darkness. “Hey, you two!” the voice of a school security officer barked out. “What are you doing here?”

            “We’re – uh – students!” Fernald said without thinking.

            The beam shone directly on their faces. “You seem a little old to be students,” the security officer remarked.

            “We’re…tall for our age,” Ainsley attempted.

            The security officer thought this over, then nodded. “That makes sense. You two better get back to your dorms. They say that awful Count Olaf might be on the loose, and you don’t want to get tangled up with him. Then again, our advanced computer system should prevent him from getting anywhere on the grounds.”

            “I trust that we are very safe!” Fernald said with a gleaming smile and an overly enthusiastic nod.

            “But you are right,” Ainsley added. “We should really be getting back to bed.”

            That placated the security officer, who was convinced that nothing suspicious could be taking place on his watch, and he turned to leave Fernald and Ainsley to their own devices; they dove for the bleachers to return to their hideout.

            They returned to find Olaf awake and fiddling with a white banner; surges of panic rushed through both of the pair. Olaf looked up, only just now realizing that two of his underlings had been missing for the first time. “Where did you two go?” he asked derisively.

            “Bathroom,” Fernald supplied.

            “At the same time?” Olaf was more surprised than suspicious.

            “Yeah,” Ainsley affirmed.

            Olaf shrugged. “I’m glad you’re awake. You two are going to be the first to hear about the new amazing plan I’ve come up with. I already have my next identity picked out. Get ready for this: Coach Genghis.”

            “That sounds like cultural appropriation,” Ainsley remarked.

            Olaf held up the banner. “And using this piece of fabric previously utilized in displays of school superiority, I can disguise my face with a turban and they won’t be able to make me get rid of it so long as I claim it’s for religious reasons.”

            “That relies heavily on cultural appropriation,” Ainsley scolded.

            “Well, normally I don’t care,” Olaf said with glee, “but if it’s culturally appropriate, hey, that’s a bonus!”

            “That’s not what that means,” Ainsley sighed.

 

* * *

 

            The auditorium of Prufrock Preparatory School was not the most spacious auditorium in existence, nor was it the most aesthetically pleasing, much like most of the academy’s architecture. When Ainsley and Fernald entered it during a period in which it was unoccupied, however, Ainsley couldn’t help but take a moment to stand at the stage’s very center and look out upon the rows of seating, thinking about how nice it must have been for those who were able to take that position in actual performances.

            “You’re thinking about acting, aren’t you?” Fernald guessed, jolting Ainsley out of reverie. “Not like scheme acting. Actual theater acting.”

            “Yeah,” Ainsley confessed. “You think we’ll ever get the chance to do that again?”

            “I…uh…”

            “I already know we probably won’t,” Ainsley sighed. “I just thought I’d ask…in case I was wrong, I guess.”

            Fernald regarded Ainsley’s fallen face with concern. They were deeply troubled, Fernald knew, and he wanted to know how to lift their spirits again, how to bring out their rare but radiant smile. The key to that particular lock evaded him; he knew to tread lightly until it turned up. Yet the show had to go on, so he transitioned: “We should probably take a look at the costumes.”

            That was the entire reason for the excursion to the auditorium: to rifle through the drama department’s array of clothing in hopes of digging up more materials to use in Olaf’s charade. Ainsley, unfortunately, had not been able to talk Olaf out of the culturally appropriative (a phrase which does NOT mean “politically correct”) guise, and had given up, realizing that trying to talk Olaf out of any of his ideas was like trying to convince a mamba du mal to go vegetarian. The others were given mostly free reign so long as they stayed within the boundaries of blending into a school environment. The mascot costume was already prepped to do a lot of the legwork in that regard. Both Fernald and Ainsley were slightly dubious about finding anything that could fit any of three adults who were over six feet in height, but one never knew.

            A rack of embellished pieces of clothing tucked in the wings held some promise. A ruffly pink scarf draped over the edge, immediately catching Ainsley’s eye. “I want this,” they stated as they plucked the scarf and draped it over their shoulders.

            “It suits you,” Fernald complimented.

            “Thanks.”

            They sorted through the rack in silence. Then Fernald cleared his throat:

            “Ainsley? I couldn’t help but notice that you’re…going through some things. Like what we talked about in the stadium. And…I just want you to be okay. So if you could let me know what to do to make things better…please?”  
            “I’ve been thinking about that,” Ainsley said morosely. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things. And you’re not going to like the answer.”

            “Well…tell me anyway!”

            “I’ve already tried talking about it with you,” Ainsley explained, “but I think we hit the point where if we talked about it again, we’d end up going around in circles without coming up with any new points of view. I think I need time to consider it more and figure things out. And I think I need that time…alone. Without…”

            “Without me,” Fernald filled in dejectedly. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

            “It’s not gonna be forever.”

            “I respect that,” Fernald replied. As Ainsley suspected, this development didn’t make him happy. But letting Ainsley get to a place of well-being was the most important priority. “I’ll leave you alone. After we get finished searching these costume racks. Just come tell me when you’ve figured out whatever you’re looking for.”

            “I will,” Ainsley promised.

            Fernald debated his next words, unsure if they would make the situation better or worse. In the end, he decided Ainsley had to know the ultimate reason he was backing off at Ainsley’s request: “I love you.”

            “I love you too.”

            Then they both fell silent.

 

* * *

 

            Fernald settled in on the bleacher next to Olaf beneath the nighttime sky; the three Baudelaires were hard at work jogging in a repetitive circle. Offering a tray with a drink to Olaf, Fernald announced, “I brought you a quintuple macchiato so you can make them run all night.”

            Olaf smugly put the drink to his lips.

            Ainsley still hadn’t given Fernald any sign that they were ready to talk to him. Fernald missed them terribly once again, despite them being in close physical proximity, relatively speaking. He wished to keep his respectful distance from Ainsley, but ached to talk to someone if it couldn’t be Ainsley.

            Well, there was someone Fernald had always wanted to get closer to as a friend sitting right there.

            “You want me to sit out here?” Fernald offered. “Keep you company? I know that I get lonely sometimes – “

            “Why don’t you go check out the concert?” Olaf said sharply.

            So much for that.

            Fernald muttered a resigned “Okay” as he rose to make his way toward the auditorium, where Nero was no doubt putting on a show of disastrous proportions. He figured he couldn’t feel lonely in such a crowded room as that.

            Making his way into the auditorium, he noted a seat had been saved for him among the rest of the troupe. Right between Charlotte and Ainsley. Both of them had fallen asleep from the sheer boredom and monotony of Nero’s inexpert performance. As Fernald settled into his reserved seat, noting also that Emily and Bolton had passed out, he gave Ainsley a glance.

            Upon drifting into slumber, Ainsley had slumped in their seat, resulting in their head being nestled on Bolton’s shoulder. And upon realizing this, Fernald knew that it was possible to be sitting right next to someone and feel half a world away from them.

            He resolved to put it out of mind. His focus was on remaining awake for the duration of Nero’s performance. Perhaps he could outlast all the others and brag about it later.

            This task proved impossible. At least the auditorium seat was more comfortable than the ground beneath the bleachers.

 

* * *

 

            After Nero finished, the audience was slowly roused from the sleep that had consumed nearly all of them, and they dispersed to their proper beds.

            However, upon realizing the auditorium would be empty, one person doubled back.

            The stage was not lit or decorated in any way. There was no audience whatsoever occupying the rows and rows of seats. Despite this, Ainsley still felt a feeling of thrill blossom within them as they strode to the center of the stage.

            This was where they truly wanted to be at the moment: in a hallowed space reserved for actors, where one could pretend to be an actor with no second agenda rather than an actor whose primary role was that of a villain. Looking out over the bare seats, they began to recite a soliloquy they had memorized for audition long ago. As they continued, their voice picked up in volume, their inflections taking on slightly more emotion than they usually showed.

            They hadn’t reached any new conclusions regarding the morality of their situation and how they needed to process it. As they continued to speak, however, they realized they had found a place of comfort.

            The monologue ended, and they looked out to the audience, heart rate elevated, half expecting some sort of reaction from the empty chairs. When none came, they sauntered off the stage, slinking out into the hallway.

            Some take their refuge in libraries. Others find it in theaters.

* * *

 

            Night after night passed; night after night, Olaf sat upon the bleachers, watching the Baudelaires run in circles. Night after night, Fernald accompanied him, hoping to make a breakthrough in their relationship so that he could be sure Olaf thought of him as a friend. It seemed that the V.F.D. agent Olaf had locked in the cafeteria freezer – a shockingly persistent waiter – had somehow escaped, and Olaf issued new orders: night after night, Charlotte, Emily, Bolton, and Ainsley were to scour the school to root out his hiding place. Night after night, Charlotte, Emily, and Bolton continued their search.

            And night after night, Ainsley took up the stage after everyone else had left the room, reciting one of the many soliloquies they had memorized for audition purposes.

            On a run to fetch Olaf more coffee, Fernald crossed paths with Bolton. “Hey,” Bolton said suddenly, “what’s up with Ainsley?”

            “How should I know?” Fernald replied. “I’m not responsible for everything they do. They’re an independent person with free will.”

            “It’s just that they’re not looking for the waiter,” Bolton informed Fernald. “I just passed the auditorium and they’re doing…something on the stage. I didn’t want to interrupt, so I thought I’d just ask you.”

            “Why me?” Fernald asked in a panic; was Bolton onto him?

            “No reason,” Bolton said unconvincingly. “Just wondered if you’d know. They’re probably still on the stage if you want to check it out. They’re a better actor than I remembered.”

            “I really have to get the boss his coffee – “ Fernald was struck with realization. “Wait. You…you used their right pronouns.”

            Bolton shrugged, moving past Fernald briskly. “Like I said, they’re a better actor than I remembered. I listened to them for a while.”

            His lips nearly brushed Fernald’s ear as he whispered, “I’m actually starting to see what you see in them.”

            Bolton was several paces away by the time Fernald had the presence of mind to whip around and yell, “WHAT’S THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?”

            Bolton simply continued down the hall as though he hadn’t been addressed.

            A great pit settled into Fernald’s stomach. Bolton was onto them. Fernald had always considered Bolton a friend, but wasn’t altogether convinced he could trust Bolton not to use that information against him and Ainsley. The best he could do was keep on denying their involvement and hope Bolton would eventually think he’d just guessed incorrectly.

            Still, his words inspired curiosity within Fernald. He knew he couldn’t dally long, but a quick detour was manageable. The auditorium was on the way to the cafeteria anyway.

            He could hear Ainsley’s voice leaking out through the side doors as he approached. He didn’t enter; he simply pressed an ear to the door and listened.

            How much true acting talent Ainsley possessed was a matter of subjectivity, which here means “one person would say they were fantastic while another would say they were among the worst actors to exist.” What Fernald heard was the words of a master at the craft, emoted perfectly convincingly. He wanted desperately to stay and listen until Ainsley had finished, but he knew Olaf would get suspicious if he didn’t return with coffee.

            So he tore himself away from the door, hustling to the cafeteria. Ainsley had sounded more in their element than they had since Fernald had returned from the lumber mill, and that put more energy into Fernald’s step.

 

* * *

 

            Swigging down a deep draught of coffee, Olaf remarked, “This plan better not fall apart because of a stupid WAITER.” The statement was addressed to Fernald, but Olaf’s eyes never left the exercising Baudelaires.

            Fernald had been steadily more satisfied with his and Olaf’s interactions. Perhaps they were becoming friends after all, he mused. “Those three are searching as hard as they can,” he insisted. “If that guy’s still on the grounds, they’ll find him.”

            “What do you mean ‘those three’?”

            Fernald immediately realized what he’d let slip. “I didn’t say three,” he covered hurriedly. “What are you talking about?”

            “You definitely said ‘those three,’” Olaf insisted. “Is someone not doing the job I ORDERED them to do?”

            “No, no no no!” Fernald argued. “That’s not what I meant at all! You know how easy it is to think of the twins as a single person sometimes. Since they finish each other’s sentences and everything.”

            “Right,” Olaf said with more than a hint of suspicion. “So everyone is doing exactly what I ordered and no one’s slacking off.”

            “Exactly.”

            Olaf knew, however, exactly who the problem was. He had suspected something like this might happen ever since he’d seen the collective reaction to the murder of Josephine. It was time, he figured, to sit someone down for a long chat.

 

* * *

 

            He found Ainsley exiting a classroom on the upper floor in the late afternoon of the following day. “Taylor,” Olaf greeted.

            “That’s not even close to my name, but okay,” Ainsley replied, clutching several books close to their chest while walking down the hall beside Olaf. “I don’t really have all that much time to talk. I kind of got into the whole teacher thing a little too deep, and I actually have essays to grade and a curriculum to plan now, so – “

            “You haven’t been looking for the waiter, have you?” Olaf accused.

            “Of course I’ve been looking for the waiter,” Ainsley lied, their voice coming out too softly to be believable.

            “Eeeehhhhhh…no,” Olaf argued.

            “How did you – “

            “I know EVERYTHING that goes on in this troupe,” Olaf explained. “Something you should REMEMBER.”

            Ainsley briefly wondered if that meant he knew about their involvement with Fernald. It was best not to test those waters; if he knew, it would come out in the wash.

            “It occurred to me that ever since Lake Lachrymose,” Olaf went on, “you’ve been less than enthusiastic about our schemes. Perhaps you’re…having a moral crisis.”

            “I am not having a moral crisis.” That sounded even less believable.

            “Oh, I think you are,” Olaf urged. “Come with me for a minute. Think of this as…an extracurricular.”

            He ducked into an empty classroom, waving at Ainsley to follow. Once both were inside, Olaf shut the door, ensuring they hadn’t been seen or followed.

            “This feels more like detention,” Ainsley commented.

            Olaf turned to look Ainsley in the eye. “I think you’ve been wondering if we should really be doing such terrible things to the poor innocent Baudelaires,” he said coldly. “After all, they’re so innocent! Except they’re NOT. I’ve never told you about a certain night at the opera, have I?”

            “You’ve told me about the time you tried to write an opera,” Ainsley offered.

            “This is a far more sinister story,” Olaf corrected. “And I’m going to go ahead and give away the twist: I’m not the one who made it so sinister.”

 

* * *

 

            Ainsley was floored.

            This does not mean that by the end of Olaf’s tale of woe, Ainsley was literally lying on the floor. It more accurately means that Ainsley felt as though they were lying on the floor despite their body standing upright in the middle of a deserted classroom. It was difficult not to feel that way after hearing a story about a man who painted himself as invincible going through a horrid event that caused his entire life to fall to pieces.

            “So now you know,” Olaf snarled. “The Baudelaires are in no way innocent. Like parent, like child. If you don’t think those children are capable of doing what their parents did, oh, you are so wrong.”

            There was a distinct possibility Olaf could be lying, Ainsley knew. He was, after all, an actor. But something in the coldness of his tone betrayed sincerity. They could find nothing to say; their voice had been stolen by shock.

            “Think it over,” Olaf urged. “Oh, and they were friends with that waiter, too. Thought for food. Maybe now you’ll be a little more receptive to the idea of harming them. It’s them or us.”

            On that note, Olaf turned to storm out of the room.

            Ainsley finally found their voice, croaking, “I’m sorry you lost your – “

            “DON’T YOU DARE FEEL SORRY FOR ME!” Olaf roared, whirling about to face Ainsley; Ainsley recoiled, seeing metaphorical fire behind Olaf’s eyes. “I REFUSE to be pitied by you or anyone. That is the LAST word on the subject!”

            He flung open the door, integrating him into the flow of foot traffic.

            Ainsley remained alone in the room for a good ten minutes more before gathering up their books and papers and entering the hall. They’d been given a lot of food for thought indeed.

            Grading essays was going to be difficult with such a revelation as this chewing at their focus.

 

* * *

 

            That very night was the last night that Olaf and his troupe spent at Prufrock Preparatory School. It seemed the events of that night and the following day reeled past far too quickly: the Quagmires disguising themselves as the Baudelaires, the Baudelaires passing the exams that decided their fates as students, Olaf’s entire scheme becoming unveiled, and Fernald taking the Quagmires into custody in a move that pleased Olaf insofar as a villain could be pleased during a madcap escape from an angry mob (an event that was becoming far too common in the life of Olaf and his henchpeople).

            The Baudelaires pursued Olaf’s vehicle as far as they could, but they were of course no match for a car reaching its upper speeds. The Quagmires were restrained in the back seat, where Fernald tried in vain to stop their screaming about V.F.D. to their friends. Once the school grounds became part of the horizon and the Baudelaires had been long left in the dust, Duncan and Isadora Quagmire fell silent and gave in to hopelessness, freeing up Fernald’s responsibility.

            He turned his gaze toward the front seat, where Ainsley sat between Olaf and Bolton. Though all Fernald could see of Ainsley was the back of their auburn hair, he could tell that Ainsley was once again troubled by the turn of events, by playing host to hostages. His heart sank as he considered Ainsley’s mental and emotional state.

            Given the company he was surrounded by, Fernald knew he couldn’t ask. Once again, he knew, the only course of action was to proceed with Olaf’s plan and wait for Ainsley’s next signal.

 

* * *

 

            Fernald, Ainsley, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily liked to think of themselves not only as actors, but as great improvisers. Improvisation is a highly valued skill among actors in comedy circles, whenever one forgets a line and must keep the scene going without breaking character, and whenever one is lying in wait for a call from one’s employer to know exactly what façade one should put on in order to deceive a financial advisor’s husband and apprehend a trio of children.

            The quintet occupied an empty beauty parlor Olaf had secured for whatever front he needed to put up. He had left them with a suggestion of “restaurant,” though informed them that could very easily change – they donned the parlor’s uniforms as a precaution. As they awaited his call, they fell into their age-old routine of playing card games together, seeing by how much they could best Fernald and Ainsley – the latter of whom couldn’t bring themselves to admit they’d been losing on purpose just yet, and continued doing just that.

            Then the call came from Olaf with strict orders. Restaurant. Name: “Herring Houdini.” Martinis to be prepared with sleeping pills crushed and mixed into the drink. Be ready to abduct the Baudelaires at the soonest possible opportunity.

            All of which went belly up because apparently, the martinis required were supposed to be a simple glass of water with an olive garnish rather than anything alcoholic, let alone vodka.

            After Esmé Squalor stormed out in a fit, confusing all involved – Had she not been part of this scheme and known she was supposed to play along? Were the wrong martinis truly enough to send her that far off course? – the quintet knew better than to pack up shop. Olaf would find some way to turn the limo around, so to speak, and bring the Squalors and Baudelaires right back where he wanted them. The restaurant needed to stay open. And, furthermore, it needed to actually have food to serve, should anyone wander in.

            “Not it for cooking the food,” Bolton said almost immediately once the subject was brought up.

            “Not it!” Charlotte and Emily chorused at once.

            Ainsley shrugged. “I’m not really feeling it.”

            “You can all be jerks sometimes, you know that?” Fernald grumbled before turning on a heel and heading for the kitchen. Though really, it was the best selection they could have made. Despite what others might have assumed about Fernald’s dexterity based on his appendages and his confusion over telephones (which was lessening and lessening with time), he was quite proficient in the kitchen, though his skills tended to lean more toward baking pastries than preparing main dishes. Especially when the primary ingredient he had to work with was pickled herring.

            Determined to make something out of his limited ingredients and not bothering to question why an abandoned beauty parlor had such a well-stocked kitchen in the first place, Fernald began to arrange pots, pans, jars of herring, and every seasoning he could find. How different, really, could this be from making a cake? It had to be less complicated for sure, he assumed. As he set to work, he heard the others bustling about in the dining area, straightening tablecloths and doing other such busy work.

            Within a short time, Fernald had put together a combination of fish and flavorings he figured, given basic logic, should be edible if not outright delicious. The next step was to taste it to make sure.

            “Hey.”

            The soft, short greeting came so suddenly, Fernald flinched in surprise. All it took was that single word to make his heart feel light. He turned around, seeing Ainsley in the doorway to the kitchen. The other three were still milling about in the dining area; it seemed Fernald and Ainsley were alone.

            “Hello,” Fernald replied. “So, uh…how are things?”

            “Better,” Ainsley answered, and Fernald knew they didn’t mean the orderliness of the tablecloths.

            “You wanna talk about anything?” Fernald asked.

            “I do,” Ainsley confirmed.

            Fernald made a beckoning motion, and Ainsley stepped further into the kitchen, closer to Fernald.

            “What did you figure out?” Fernald asked.

            “I’m not sure I can explain all of it,” Ainsley began. “I spent most of my time at Prufrock just kind of blowing off steam.”

            “You were good,” Fernald said without thinking. When Ainsley gave him a surprised look, he admitted, “I listened in one night. Just for a bit. I hope that’s okay.”

            “It’s fine.”

            “You really were good.”

            “Thank you.” Ainsley’s expression became more content. “Anyway, Olaf figured out I wasn’t chasing that waiter around, and he pulled me aside to tell me something. It’s not something I can really share. It was kinda personal to him. But it was the point of view I needed. Those kids’ parents…did something evil. They’re really not as innocent as they seem. None of them are. Not Montgomery, not Josephine…”

            “So you think they deserved it,” Fernald summed.

            “Well, that’s just one way to look at it,” Ainsley corrected. “I do think that’s a factor. But more importantly, they all thought they were the people doing good in the world, and they’ve done things that were horrible. It’s just like you said and like I used to think. People aren’t just good or evil. They all did what they had to. And we’re doing what we have to. This whole plan isn’t any worse than what any of them did in the past. More importantly, we’re going to have to do things that could be considered evil in order to get by in this world, which largely doesn’t care about good or evil as concepts. I just have to get more used to it. I can’t shut down whenever anything happens that makes me feel conflicted. Because I really am doing what I have to in order to belong somewhere.” Their gaze slowly moved away from Fernald and to the floor. “I might be able to deliver a monologue at a moment’s notice, but I think this whole time, I knew I could never really be an actor in a more legitimate production. No one would actually cast me.” They were silent for a moment before continuing: “There’s also another really good reason to be here and go along with what Olaf wants, even if it’s disconcerting.”

            “What’s that?” Fernald asked.

            “I kind of thought it would be obvious that I want to be here with you,” Ainsley said plainly, looking back up to meet Fernald’s gaze.

            “I’m glad you figured out what you wanted to,” Fernald said earnestly. “When you put it like that, I think that’s how I feel about a lot of it, too. We need to be bad to get by. To be honest, I’ve been a little worried for you over these past few days.”

            “I didn’t mean to make you worry,” Ainsley said sheepishly. “Let me just apolog – “

            “No, please, don’t!” Fernald interrupted. “Don’t apologize. It…happens. I’m just glad you’re doing better.”

            “I’m also sorry I shut you out,” Ainsley continued.

            “Well, you needed to,” Fernald said with a shrug.

            “How have you been holding up?” Ainsley asked.

            “I’ve been just fine,” Fernald responded. “I think the boss and I are better friends now. Probably. Possibly. Anyway, I think I did a pretty good job with the main course. Want the first taste?”

            “Sure.” Ainsley walked up next to Fernald to look at the pot of what he’d put together. It could most accurately be described as sludge, but its appearance wasn’t off-putting to Ainsley in the slightest. They took up a large spoon, ladled out a scoop, and took a bite.

            Immediately, the sour look that crossed their face alerted Fernald to the fact that he wasn’t as skilled at making herring dishes as he was at making cake.

            “It’s not horrible,” Ainsley said around the mouthful they couldn’t bring themselves to swallow.

            “It’s pretty horrible, isn’t it?” Fernald asked.

            “At least it’s edible.”

            Fernald saw right through the lie and handed over a large napkin. Ainsley covered their mouth long enough to empty the entire bite into it, then fold the cloth up and drop it into a nearby wastebasket.

            “Now I’m curious.” Fernald took spoon in hook, scooping out a portion for himself.

            “I wouldn’t – “ Ainsley warned.

            But it was too late. Fernald chewed the sludge for half a minute, trying to bring himself to tolerate it.

            Ainsley simply handed him a napkin, and Fernald’s spat-out portion ended up in the wastebasket next to Ainsley’s.

            “It’s not like we have to eat it anyway,” Ainsley pointed out.

            “I’m usually better than this,” Fernald bemoaned. “Though, then again, I usually do cake instead.”

            “I didn’t know you baked.”

            “It’s sort of a passing hobby. I’ll make a small one for you sometime.”

            “You don’t have to do that,” Ainsley said, “but I’d appreciate it all the same.”

            They locked eyes again, and it seemed things were finally back to normal between them. Each knew exactly where the other’s train of thought was going, and they stole a glance at the kitchen door, outside which Emily, Charlotte, and Bolton seemed to be in some sort of argument about which tables should have floral arrangements on them and which didn’t need them.

            “Nobody’s paying any attention to us,” Fernald said softly.

            “Good,” Ainsley said, equally hushed.

            They turned back to each other and fell into an eager kiss, each gently wrapping arms around the other. It had certainly been too long since they’d done that.

            They parted after only a short time, knowing that at any minute, they could be interrupted. And in a miracle of timing, just after they backed away from each other, Charlotte and Emily shot into the room.

            “Urgent phone call from Olaf!” Charlotte insisted. “The Daily Punctilio is about to declare Herring Houdini to be in!”

            “In what?” Fernald and Ainsley said as one.

            “You know, IN!” Emily stated by way of explanation, though it really was no explanation at all. “We’re going to need a lot more food!”

            “And fast!” Charlotte emphasized.

            “Not to mention greeting our patrons at the door!” Emily added.

            “And taking reservations!” Charlotte contributed.

            They were gone as soon as they’d come.

            “All this just to kidnap three orphans?” Fernald said in disbelief.

            “To be honest,” Ainsley admitted, “putting on all the trappings of a legitimate restaurant sounds like it could be actually enjoyable.”

            “You know what?” Fernald realized. “You’re right!”

            A passing fly buzzed through the kitchen and landed on the counter. Noticing a flyswatter sitting nearby, Ainsley picked it up and gave the fly a whack. “Hopefully that will be the last one of those,” they muttered.

 

* * *

 

            On the upside, Herring Houdini managed to be a legitimate business for a full hour and turned a sizeable profit. On the downside, the Baudelaire orphans had been completely lost track of during the transition of the lunch rush from Café Salmonella to the much smaller and less professional establishment.

            You win some and you lose some.

            After the last of the wealthy diners emptied out of the tiny restaurant, cleaning duties were divided up. After the slop Fernald had created was actually sampled by Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily, they wrenched the position of cook away from him, taking turns in the kitchen. Bolton ended up the most recent to work over the stove, taking raw herring from the refrigerator and starting from scratch to create something that would ultimately be even less palatable than Fernald’s creation.

            Charlotte and Emily teamed up for dish washing duty. Ainsley took up a broom and dustpan, careful to collect all of the shards of glass from the dishes Olaf had broken during the grand musical number he had ended up performing at the drop of a hat and the behest of a man in a giant salmon suit. Fernald gathered up all the tablecloths, but wasn’t quite sure what to do with them in the absence of a washing machine, so they ended up balled up in the corner. After that, Fernald brought out a mop and bucket to go over all the areas Ainsley had already swept, though this essentially ended in Fernald spreading dirty water across the floor and making it filthier than it had originally been.

            The five worked in silence until a soft voice broke through the void, quietly singing, “Keep chasing your schemes…keep chasing your schemes…”

            Fernald’s head snapped up to look at the source of the sound. Charlotte, Emily, and Bolton all peered out of the kitchen as well. All eyes were on Ainsley.

            “It’s still stuck in my head,” Ainsley said rather apologetically. They then returned to sweeping in silence.

            Fernald, however, was inspired. As he splatted the mop down onto the floor, he picked up with, “Your future’s, what’s the word for so very far away? Getting closer month by week, I mean day…”

            “You’ll be in charge of all the new regimes…” Ainsley sang again.

            They looked to Fernald; Fernald looked back. Together, they belted out, “IF YOU KEEP CHASING YOUR SCHEEEEEEMES!”

            They then realized that neither one had remembered any of the lyrics past that point. They filled it in with “La da da la da daaaaaa la da da de da…”, breaking into great smiles as they gave the semblance of dancing with the broom and the mop.

            Charlotte, Emily, and Bolton watched Fernald and Ainsley’s duet and their exchanging of coy looks while continuing the chores for another verse. Before either singer had time to wonder what the other three must have thought, the remaining trio joined in for the chorus: “You’ve got to! Keep chasing your scheeeeeemes! Keep chasing your SCHEEEEEEMES!”

            As all returned to chores, the song rang out: “A journey begins la de da de da de da! Doo doo doo doo doo schlep, schlep, schlep!”

            At that moment in time, when all five were focused on doing ordinary chores while singing a jaunty tune, forgetting about the actual scheme they were supposed to keep chasing, it seemed as though a weight had been lifted. And Fernald thought, as he stole another glance at Ainsley, that perhaps he wouldn’t mind living this way forever instead of making do as an actor for criminal purposes. Perhaps, instead, he wanted to learn how to make more edible herring sludge. Perhaps he wanted to greet the various crowds that had come into Herring Houdini so looking forward to their stylish if unhealthy lunch. Perhaps he wanted to simply sing catchy songs alongside Ainsley, who really did have a beautiful singing voice that Fernald felt he couldn’t hope to match.

            The song, however, eventually had to end. And no sooner had it done so, on a rousing high note that no one present could actually hit, than the phone rang. It was, as usual, a call from Count Olaf, and once again, it changed the troupe’s entire direction.

            At times like that, it was best not to think about what could have been. It was better to focus on what was.

 

* * *

 

            The next part of the plan was to be put in place during the auction at Veblen Hall, requiring yet another shift in disguises. Esmé Squalor had provided generously, donating suits and gowns of the utmost formality.

            The troupe was given several small rooms in the back of the hall in which to change. Once Fernald had done so, he looked himself over in a full-length mirror, also provided by Esmé, and he had to admit the picture was sharp. His suit was that of a well-to-do gentleman; he couldn’t remember the last time he had regarded himself as that good-looking.

            He stepped out of his room at the exact time Ainsley stepped out of theirs, and immediately his heart skipped a beat. Fernald had found himself aesthetically pleasing to look at, but now felt he was nothing compared to Ainsley. Ainsley had been outfitted with creaseless black pants, a crisp pinstripe jacket, and a diaphanous scarf shot through with glimmering gold embroidery – the sort of scarf Fernald knew Ainsley had simply insisted on wearing. All was topped off by a flat hat adorned with a white feather, skewed sideways atop Ainsley’s freshly coiffed auburn hair.

            “Wow,” Fernald said in awe. “You look…” The proper words escaped him, and the best he could come up with was “…like a very wealthy restaurant owner who can afford to bid on high-priced items at a fancy auction.”

            “That’s good,” Ainsley said sincerely, “because I’m supposed to look like a wealthy restaurant owner, and I’m going to be bidding on high-priced items at a fancy auction.”

            Fernald considered how best to kick himself for the wording of that compliment, even though Ainsley had taken it very well.

            “You look really handsome,” Ainsley told Fernald.

            Fernald was, first of all, envious of Ainsley’s ability to say it so clearly and confidently without stumbling the way Fernald had. But even more, he was flattered. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “About you…what I meant to say was…you look…you look like…”

            “I know what you mean,” Ainsley said simply, and Fernald realized they did know exactly what Fernald was trying to say. Though they didn’t look it on the outside, they were just as flattered as Fernald was.

            Before either could say more, Esmé strode down the hall, calling out, “Places! Placeeeeeeees!”, signifying that the next act in their show was to begin.

 

* * *

 

            The Veblen Hall auction had somehow ended up in the troupe being chased away by another angry mob.

            “Is it bad that I’m getting used to this?” Fernald asked the group at large once all were settled in the getaway car.

            So the plan changed yet again, and brought them all to the Village of Fowl Devotees. After a close encounter with Arthur Poe, who seemed to be everywhere Olaf went nowadays, the troupe set up home base in the village’s abandoned saloon, though judging by certain elements of décor, Ainsley guessed the building had at some point been a fire station.

            “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to get changed,” Esmé announced after distributing several costume elements to the others. “I am, after all, the central character in this plot. Really, the show couldn’t go on without me. Rather exciting when I think about it. Olaf, sweetie, is there a place I can have some privacy?”

            “Why, yes, of course,” Olaf answered. “If everyone would please follow me to the second floor.”

            A network of creaky wooden doors awaited them there. “Hmm…let’s see.” Olaf pushed open one door to find a spacious bedroom with a large bed beyond it. “This will work for Esmé and myself. As for the rest of you…” He peeled open the adjacent door, revealing a much smaller chamber with a pitiful, lumpy-looking bed. “I think the five of you will have enough room in here.”

            “ONE bed?” Fernald said in dismay.

            “That actually is pretty consistent with Olaf’s track record,” Ainsley reminded him.

 

* * *

 

            Had Fernald, Ainsley, Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily stayed in the saloon that night, they might have been witness to the greater incident about to unfold before them. As it was, however, they stuck to their plan of vandalizing the Village of Fowl Devotees undercover of the dark in order to make the Baudelaires’ lives just that much more complicated.

            Ainsley, Emily, and Charlotte had gone on ahead to previously agreed-upon locations while Fernald and Bolton were put in charge of gathering necessary supplies. As the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, Fernald hoisted up a hefty basket of eggs in each hook while Bolton ferried a pyramid of toilet paper rolls.

            “This is gonna be fun,” Fernald said wickedly as the pair slunk out into the square.

            “You said it,” Bolton agreed.

            “You take the gas station; I’ll take the church,” Fernald suggested. “Those kids will be so busy cleaning, they won’t have time to foil the boss’s plans.”

            “What about the fountain?” Bolton asked, shooting a look at the massive crow that dominated the square: the very hiding place of two very unfortunate triplets.

            Fernald gave the statue a look-over, sizing it up and thinking about its precious contents. “I think we’ve done enough,” he resolved.

            He turned to part ways from Bolton, but was stopped in his tracks by a comment from his comrade: “You’re a lucky man, you know that?”

            Fernald glanced over his shoulder. “Is there a reason I’m so lucky?”

            “Well, you know,” Bolton urged. “It’s pretty obvious why you picked the church. Because you-know-who is waiting there.”

            “For the last time, there is NOTHING going on between me and Ainsley!” Fernald growled. “We just both like desecrating churches! What self-respecting villain doesn’t?”

            “It’s really more obvious than you think,” Bolton told him. “The twins and I figured it out a long time ago. But we all know the boss wouldn’t react well to knowing about it, so we’ve kept quiet. You don’t have to worry.”

            “…Thank you,” Fernald said tentatively. He’d known Bolton for too long to distrust him on this matter; the same went for Emily and Charlotte. Besides, if he tried denying the relationship any longer, it wouldn’t change the perception of those three that there was something going on.

            “What are partners in crime for?” Bolton said before hustling off to the gas station, where Emily and Charlotte lay in wait.

            Fernald picked up his pace to arrive at the church. A lone, tall figure awaited him there, staring up at the building’s massive spire. “Look what I’ve got!” Fernald called out to get their attention.

            Ainsley turned to see what Fernald had brought. “Nice,” they remarked when they beheld the baskets of eggs.

            “Though I have some bad news,” Fernald added. “Or maybe it’s good news. Bolton, Emily, and Charlotte have us figured out. They just haven’t said anything to the boss because…well, for the same reasons we’ve been keeping it secret from the boss.”

            “You’ve known them longer than I have,” Ainsley reminded Fernald. “Can we trust them?”

            “I think we can,” Fernald stated.

            “It’s hard to know who to trust even in the best of circumstances,” Ainsley commented. “But if you think they’ll keep our secret, then you’re probably right. After all, you are the one person I am sure I can trust.”

            Fernald hoped he was right after all. He held up the baskets a little higher. “So. Want to get started?”

            Ainsley relieved Fernald of one of the baskets, gathering up an egg into each hand. Fernald lay his own basket on the ground, plucking an egg with a delicate enough pinch so as not to break it prematurely. “This your first time egging a building?” he asked.

            “Actually, yes,” Ainsley admitted. “Is there a special technique for doing it right or something?”

            “Well, not really,” Fernald explained, “but there is something I like to do whenever I do this.”

            “So it’s not YOUR first time egging a building.”

            “I’ve been doing this since long before Count Olaf,” Fernald clarified. “All the way back before these.” He held up and clicked his free hook. “Anyway, I like to think about somebody I hate whenever I throw one, and whenever it breaks, it’s like that person is breaking too. It’s a good emotional outlet.”

            Ainsley weighed the eggs in their hands. “Do you have to say who it is out loud?”

            “Well, not if you’re working alone, of course,” Fernald answered, “but with a two-person job, I guess it’s up to you. For instance, the first egg I always throw…” He drew back the arm clutching the egg, then launched it hard at the church door. “Is for my STEPFATHER!”

            The egg smacked wetly against the carved wood.

            “Now you,” Fernald urged. “You can say who it is or you don’t have to.”

            Ainsley closed their eyes and let out a deep breath. “When I was younger…they used to beat me up and throw me around. They would say I was a boy who thought he was a girl. I tried to explain I wasn’t either of those things, but they wouldn’t listen.”

            “Who was this?” Fernald asked in concern. “Your parents? Bullies?”

            “Just kids from school,” Ainsley answered. “Garden variety bullies. Really not worth listening to in the long run. It still hurt, though. Physically and emotionally.”

            They tossed one egg, then the other. Crack, crack; yolk and white ran down the side of the building.

            “And now they’re just broken eggs,” Ainsley said with a slight smile. “That did feel good.”

            “I’m glad,” Fernald said as he retrieved his second egg. “You know, the other day, someone on the street called me a name for no reason. I’d rather not repeat it. But it had to do with…well, you know.” He held up and clicked his free hook. “They just…said the name, kind of shoved me, and walked away. And you know what?” The egg flew through the air. “Now they’re just a BROKEN EGG!”

            One by one, the eggs disappeared, taking with them a host of unpleasant memories. For even villains have had wrong done to them by terrible people, or, at the very least, people capable of terrible actions. Though many of the eggs thrown were unjustified, aimed at people who had meant well, just as many were thrown in the name of those who had offered Fernald and Ainsley nothing but hatred. Everyone, no matter how wicked, has been a victim of cruel words.

            Fernald and Ainsley circled the church slowly as they threw their eggs, making sure to absolutely coat the building in albumen. Finally the moment came when they both reached into their baskets and seized empty air.

            “That was cathartic,” Ainsley remarked.

            “I didn’t know there were so many people that treated you so mean,” Fernald said sympathetically. “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t be,” Ainsley told him. “I didn’t keep count, but I think you had more than I did. I’m sorry for what you had to deal with.”

            “It’s fine,” Fernald stated. “That’s what the eggs are for. And after this, we move forward, right?”

            They looked to each other in the dark. It occurred to them, as it had occurred to them many times before, that they felt so much more than comfortable in each other’s company, and no matter how many people lay in their pasts that required broken eggs, there was one person in each of their lives that outweighed it all, and they were each looking at that one person.

            “I don’t know if I’m reading the mood right,” Ainsley said tentatively. “Is this the right moment for a kiss?”

            “You are definitely reading the mood right,” Fernald assured them, closing the distance.

            As their lips met, they were blissfully unaware that their display of affection had not gone unnoticed. A certain person was making way to the police station across the road from the saloon, following a trail of hints that far too much justice had befallen Count Olaf, and on the way, that person spotted Ainsley and Fernald. Taken aback, that person considered interrupting, but instead thought it better to store the information away should it become relevant. The course to the police station was resumed.

            Ainsley and Fernald then decided to join the others at the gas station; Charlotte had just given the last roll of toilet paper an enthusiastic toss over the roof, creating an absolute vista of strewn white strips.

            “Did you two have fun?” Emily asked when she noticed the pair approaching. It was too dark to tell, but they knew she’d winked.

            “So you really did figure us out,” Ainsley stated.

            “It’s not like you two were subtle,” Charlotte replied.

            “The only reason Olaf hasn’t figured it out is because he has a tendency to miss the obvious,” Emily added.

            “…What about Esmé?” Fernald realized. “You think she’ll figure out anything?”

            “Nah,” Bolton said casually. “If she fell for Olaf, she can’t be that perceptive.”

            That got a laugh out of the other four.

            “Well, we’re done here,” Emily announced.

            “Anything else we should do before we call it a night?” Charlotte asked.

            “Well, what else in this town could be messed with?” Fernald inquired.

            “I did see one thing,” Ainsley brought up. “I don’t know if it’s such a good idea.”

            “Then I want to hear a bad idea,” Bolton urged.

            Within moments, the five had arranged around a large pen where the village donkey was kept. They snuck up as quietly as they could, which was difficult, given the amount of giggling Charlotte, Emily, and Fernald had to hold back. They arranged behind the donkey.

            Bolton whispered a countdown. And when he reached “one,” all five gave a loud roar.

            The donkey screeched, startled. It also proceeded to lose control of the last stages of its digestive system, as many animals do when frightened, providing a scene that was to the five miscreants equal parts disgusting and hilarious.

            Thoroughly satisfied, the quintet returned to the saloon in a joyful mood. Olaf and Esmé were nowhere to be found, which was mildly concerning, but, as Bolton put it, “When do we ever REALLY know what Olaf’s up to?”

            “You think we can take over his room while he’s gone?” Fernald wondered out loud.

            “He’s going to come back and catch us,” Ainsley reminded him.

            “Right,” Fernald sighed. “So it’s the one bed. Looks like we’ll have to figure out who gets it. And don’t you dare suggest we rock-paper-scissors for it, Bolton. It wasn’t funny the first time and it’s still not funny.”

            “Actually, I’m fine with sleeping on the floor,” Bolton stated.

            “As are we,” Charlotte and Emily chorused.

            “We talked it over while we were redecorating the gas station,” Bolton clarified. “After all, we’re all able to sleep on the ground no problem.”

            “Wait,” Ainsley realized. “So that leaves the bed to…”

            “This wasn’t a coincidence,” Fernald accused.

            “Why, whatever do you mean?” Emily asked teasingly.

            “We only made the decision based on which of us would be most comfortable on the floor,” Charlotte added.

            “Well…” Fernald looked to Ainsley. “You can have it.”

            “No, you take it,” Ainsley urged.

            “You could share,” Bolton suggested.

            “Could we share?” Fernald asked Ainsley.

            “I’m fine with it,” Ainsley said with a mild shrug. “But I don’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

            “No, no, I’d be very comfortable,” Fernald insisted. “Completely comfortable. It’s just if YOU’RE not comfortable – “

            “I think we’re at that point, then,” Ainsley remarked.

            “Just keep it PG,” Emily commanded. “You have three roommates, you know.”

            “We will,” Ainsley promised.

            They arranged themselves in the tiny room; Charlotte and Emily curled up on the hard wooden floor on the left side while Bolton stretched out on the boards on the right. That left Fernald and Ainsley to lie beside each other on the old bed; the narrow mattress required them to be positioned close enough that the lengths of their arms touched.

            Bolton, Charlotte, and Emily were knocked out right away, signified by a distinct snoring. Ainsley pulled the bed’s threadbare blanket up over themselves and Fernald, the latter of whom had set his hooks beneath the bed for the night.

            “Am I too close?” Fernald whispered with concern.

            “No, you’re not,” Ainsley whispered in return. “I’d even be okay if you wanted to be closer. But only if it’s within your comfort zone.”

            Fernald gladly accepted the invitation, snuggling in next to Ainsley and wrapping his arm to intertwine with theirs while his head rested on Ainsley’s shoulder. It was a quite comfortable position indeed and made up for the poor quality of the bed.

            Ainsley had half drifted off when a light pressure on their cheek snapped them back to wakefulness; Fernald had given them a soft kiss. “Goodnight,” Fernald whispered before closing his eyes.

            Still, to that moment, Ainsley wasn’t used to such physical affection, and was realizing how much they yearned for it. It only seemed fair to return what had been given, so they twisted their head to get into position to lay a kiss on Fernald’s forehead. “Goodnight,” they whispered, unsure if Fernald were already asleep.

            He wasn’t, and moreover, he was glad he’d been awake for that.

            They both lost consciousness around the same time.

 

* * *

 

            Two days later, all five worked away chopping and carrying lumber to build a stake for burning while Olaf and Esmé manned the police station, their new base of operations, to handle questions from the likes of Arthur Poe.

            Fernald positioned another log onto the perfectly square pile before turning back to where the others hacked at felled trees with their axes. The equipment from the Lucky Smells mill would have come in quite handy here, Fernald thought.

            While Bolton, Emily, and Charlotte repetitively raised and lowered their axes, Ainsley’s movements caught Fernald’s eye. They prepared to hold the axe aloft, but then faltered, letting it fall to the ground as they stared at the tree trunk, hands shaking.

            Fernald didn’t need to be told what was wrong. He hurried to Ainsley’s side, asking softly, “Do you need to get out of here?”

            “I’m fine,” Ainsley attempted to say, but even they knew how much of a lie it sounded.

            “Excuse us?” Fernald told the remaining three. “We’ll be back.” He settled one arm around Ainsley’s forearm and one resting gently on their back, softly physically urging them to step away, muttering, “You’re okay. You’re fine.”

            Out in the open field away from the worksite, Fernald faced Ainsley, stating, “It’s because of the children, isn’t it?”

            “It’s fine,” Ainsley insisted, though they weren’t able to look Fernald in the eye while saying it. “I told you I was going to be less susceptible to breaking down over doing what we need to do. Technically, they’d go on to do worse things with their lives if they survived, and their parents already did do something this bad, so this isn’t really a bad thing. The payoff of helping Olaf will totally be worth it.” They couldn’t keep their hands from shaking.

            “You…have a troubled conscience,” Fernald diagnosed.

            “I already promised myself I wouldn’t anymore,” Ainsley said rather hoarsely.

            Fernald tentatively stepped forward, gaining confidence as he closed the distance between himself and Ainsley and wrapped the latter into a gentle embrace. “It’s okay,” he said softly. “Yes, you will have to get through this. But you’re going to be okay at the end.”

            “Society is utterly arbitrary about what the ‘right thing’ is anyway,” Ainsley murmured. “I don’t see why I should be caught up in it.”

            “Because…” Fernald faltered before realizing he had the answer with him all along. “Because your conscience doesn’t play by the rules of society anyway. You never have. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

            “I don’t know how to make it stop.”

            Fernald didn’t either. All he could do was stay present. He felt Ainsley’s arms wrap around him, softly at first but tightening into an iron grip.

            “What are you two doing?”

            They backed away from each other in a blink’s time, facing Esmé Squalor, who had intruded upon their moment. “The stake is not going to build itself,” she insisted, “and it would go much faster with five people working instead of three!”

            “It would go even faster with six,” Fernald stated as he looked pointedly at Esmé.

            “Darling, please,” Esmé said with a light laugh. “I can’t play the role of police chief with a ruined manicure. Now chop chop.” She clapped her hands.

            It turned out that in Ainsley’s case, fear was a bigger motivator than comfort. They hurried back to position, taking up the axe again at Esmé’s command. Fernald hustled as well, picking up lumber that the other three had prepared and bringing it to the stake site.

            I’ll be fine, Ainsley thought to themselves as they rhythmically chopped at the wood. I’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. And the more they thought it, the truer it sounded.

            Esmé regarded them with a degree of suspicion. Either they or Fernald had initiated slacking off from the job, and Olaf had shared enough about his associates with Esmé in private for her to guess who. And, based on what she’d seen during the night of the vandalism, if Ainsley were shirking again based on petty morals, Fernald would drop everything to follow.

            It was a problem she knew she would have to address eventually, though now wasn’t the time. She spotted Olaf heading out to the site; her place was with him for the time being.

 

* * *

 

            This time, the angry mob ended up chasing the Baudelaires out of town rather than Count Olaf. This was a refreshing change of pace.

            It seemed that the longer Olaf went on, the closer he got to actually killing the Baudelaires as he planned. They’d narrowly escaped a burning at the stake, but now he had Violet drugged and unconscious, awaiting a crude “craniectomy.”

            Ainsley, once more taking up the moniker of Nurse Lucafont, did have to wonder what exactly had possessed Olaf to leave them in charge of guarding her.

            They watched her even breathing. The anesthesia was keeping her subdued; she definitely wouldn’t be escaping anytime soon. It didn’t seem fair, really. She didn’t stand a fighting chance. Ainsley didn’t see how she’d be able to escape this particular scrape. She would be well and truly executed.

            I’ll be fine, they said internally. I’ll be fine, even if she won’t be. She’s a Baudelaire, her parents committed an atrocity, and we’re all just doing what we have to.

            The mantra was finally starting to sound real. It was calming, but not enough. Ainsley longed for a diversion to take up half their mind during the sordid duty of guarding Violet.

            On the bedside table was a relic left by a previous patient: a book with a pastel-covered color. Upon inspection, it turned out to be a romance novel entitled “Love in the Hinterlands.” Ainsley regarded romance novels gingerly; all too often, they contained dubious themes of women becoming unhealthily submissive to their male partners, resulting in an abusive relationship passed off as a romantic ideal the audience should aspire to. However, a glance at the summary revealed that this particular novel’s romantic plot was shared between two men rather than one male and one female, which was already a sign that the author and his publishing staff were more progressive than was to be expected. That didn’t automatically free the book of problems, but it was a start.

            So Ainsley began reading. It turned out to be a fascinating tale, and from what Ainsley could tell of the relationship’s early stages, it was written with a loving, healthy and consenting attitude between both parties. It was a shame, they thought, that this sort of book would always be looked down upon by the likes of V.F.D. as inferior literature because of its mass market appeal and lack of literary canon clout, despite its progressive themes. Yet another reason to consider themselves separate from those who seemed to Ainsley to be but a bunch of literary elitists.

            The book succeeded in occupying just enough of Ainsley’s mind that they didn’t overthink Violet’s upcoming bloody fate, and by the time Olaf fetched them to prepare her for the murder, Ainsley was completely tranquil. That feeling carried over into the operating theater, where they found themselves caught up in the atmosphere of the crowd, finally actively cheering for a Baudelaire to die.

 

* * *

 

            I am sure by now, you are well acquainted with the difference between the word “nervous” and the word “anxious.” So when I say that during the Heimlich Hospital fire - when every member of Olaf’s troupe had gathered except for Ainsley, who was still somewhere inside the burning building - Fernald awaited Ainsley anxiously, I do not have to explain any further what Fernald was feeling.

            I’ve always told you you’ll be fine, Fernald thought as he stood outside the car, eyes glued to the flaming structure of the hospital. You need to be fine this time. He drummed his hook upon the roof of the car, hoping not to have to prepare for the worst.

            Olaf and Esmé had been preoccupied by arguing about something that had complicated their plans – some sort of bowl, the Baudelaires escaping, a survivor of something Fernald hadn’t paid enough attention to grasp. But once Olaf realized Fernald was standing outside the car instead of taking his place alongside Esmé in the front passenger seat, he grew vexed. “GET IN THE CAR THIS INSTANT!” he growled. “I’M LEAVING ON THE COUNT OF THREE!”

            Fernald ducked low enough to put Olaf in his sights. “Just one second, boss!” he urged. “We’re waiting for you-know-who!” He doubted at this point Olaf would recognize the name “Ainsley.” Olaf hadn’t even remembered that Fernald had even told him his name at all. Though Fernald was only just realizing the distinct possibility that Olaf didn’t even know Ainsley was missing from their ranks, which made the situation all the more horrifying.

            “ONE!” Olaf barked.

            Fernald’s tapping increased in pace. He kept his focus on the building, waiting for a familiar silhouette to break through the crowd.

            Which is exactly what happened.

            Relief showered Fernald as he put up his other hook to hurriedly beckon Ainsley toward the car faster, faster. Ainsley rushed toward him, holding some sort of cloth to their face. Already reading the question about the cloth from Fernald’s face, Ainsley had enough time to explain, “Stings real bad – “

            “TWO!” Olaf snapped.

            “Go!” Fernald hissed, throwing an arm around the back of Ainsley’s shoulders to guide them into the safety of the back seat of the car.

            And as Fernald settled himself in the seat next to Esmé, he completely missed the fact that three stowaways had slunk into the car’s trunk.

            “Three,” Olaf declared.

            “What happens next, boss?” Fernald asked.

            “How should I know?” Olaf grumbled, fumbling for a flyer that had gotten stuck to the dashboard. “I’m not…” His eyes lit up as he read the flyer over. “…psychic.”

            Bolton and Emily peered over his shoulder to read the flyer, but Fernald couldn’t care less. The car pealed out onto the road.

            That had been too close, Fernald thought to himself. He stole a look back over his shoulder at Ainsley. Ainsley, cloth still pressed to face, returned the look.

            There was no time to talk about what had just transpired. It would wait.

* * *

 

            The destination Olaf had in mind was the Caligari Carnival, located in the most desolate part of the Hinterlands. It was a long way from Heimlich Hospital, and the car wouldn’t make it there without a stop for gas. A second branch of the Last Chance loomed up in the distance, a certain irony lingering over the fact that there were multiple Last Chances; the car pulled up next to a pump, and Olaf left the car to begin filling its tank.

            “GO get changed!” he ordered, an air of ire surrounding him. “We’ll need different costumes for this scene.”

            Esmé, Emily, Charlotte, Bolton, Ainsley, and Fernald all spilled out of the car, making way toward the general store to change into the alternate outfits they’d kept under their seats for just this occasion.

            Before Ainsley could reach the door, they felt the gentle tug of one of Fernald’s hooks on their collar. “Can I see you behind the building for a minute?” Fernald asked.

            “Sure,” Ainsley said casually, shifting their steps to follow Fernald out back.

            Once Fernald and Ainsley were isolated behind the shop, Fernald threw his arms around Ainsley without warning, pulling them close.

            Ainsley wasn’t sure what to make of this. They were pleased with the physical contact, if not entirely sure what had brought it on.

            “I’m glad you’re okay,” Fernald said hoarsely, almost a whisper.

            “Why…wouldn’t I be?” Ainsley replied in confusion.

            Fernald backed off slightly, still keeping arms lightly pressed to Ainsley’s sides. “Because of the hospital!” he said incredulously. “You were still in there when it was on fire! I was afraid you were…” He closed his eyes, shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You’re okay now.”

            The full realization of what had happened hit Ainsley for the first time. They had been inside a structure that was on fire. There was a strong chance that the companions who had gone with them to chase down the Baudelaires did not all make it out as safely as Ainsley had. “I almost died in there, didn’t I?” they said with newfound clarity, their own hands reaching out to grasp Fernald’s elbows for steadiness.

            “Well, you’re not dead now,” Fernald stated. “I just had to…”

            “I understand.” A second realization slammed into Ainsley’s understanding. “You were the only one who waited for me.”

            “I…guess I was,” Fernald figured out. “It’s not like the others weren’t worried, though.”

            “Did Olaf even know I was missing?”

            “I…ehhhhhh…” Fernald couldn’t bring himself to answer that question.

            “You waited,” Ainsley repeated.

            “Of course I waited!” Fernald insisted with newfound confidence. “I couldn’t leave you behind! I’d NEVER leave you behind!”

            “Fernald…” Ainsley began softly, not sure quite how to express their jumble of emotions: fear, relief, amazement, love. It would have only taken them a few minutes to gather the right words to express it all, of course, but Fernald interrupted first:

            “What happened to your face?”

            A bright pink mark blazed across the left half of Ainsley’s face, where they’d had the cloth pressed – a compress of sorts, Fernald realized – when they had departed the hospital. “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Ainsley explained. “The children formed some kind of bungee cord out of surgical tubing, and it hit me in the face when they let go of it. It still stings.”

            Out of instinct, Fernald leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to the bruise. The pressure flared up the stinging sensation, but emotionally, it was a balm, meaning it had an effect that felt like healing.

            Fernald suddenly backed off; “Did that make it hurt worse?”

            “Only physically,” Ainsley answered. “It was an emotional balm.”

            They leaned toward each other once more, lips meeting lips this time, and held onto that kiss for some time. When they broke apart, Ainsley said softly, “I’m starting to get concerned that I’m doing more taking than giving in this relationship. First I pushed you away, then I made you worry about me at least twice.”

            “Well, you survived the fire,” Fernald told them, “and that’s all I wanted, so as far as I’m concerned, we’re even.”

            “I still think I owe you a serious back rub when we get some time alone.”

            “I’ll take it.”

            They finally let go of each other. “We seriously need to get changed,” Fernald insisted. “Why don’t you ride in the front seat the rest of the way?”

            “You don’t need to give me your spot because I had a near-death experience.”

            “What if I said I was forcing you to take my spot and wouldn’t take arguments?”

            “Then I guess I’d have to take your spot,” Ainsley replied.

            Inside the store, they went separate ways, entering opposite bathrooms. Ainsley found Esmé, Emily, and Charlotte adjusting their clothing behind the door they’d selected.

            Esmé flinched. “Ainsley!” she greeted in surprise. “…The women’s bathroom, dear?”

            “Well, I don’t really fit either category,” Ainsley explained, offput by Esmé’s comment, “and the women’s bathroom is usually cleaner.”

            “We have it on good authority that the men’s room is filthy,” Emily backed up.

            “Very well,” Esmé resolved. “Charlotte, Emily, would you mind heading out to the car? I’d like a little word alone with dear Ainsley.”

            “What do you have to say to them that you can’t say to us?” Charlotte said sternly, sensing something sinister in Esmé’s request.

            “We did very nearly lose them in a terrible fire,” Esmé explained. “As I’m sure a great many orphans we’ve been pursuing can tell you, there’s nothing worse than losing a loved one in a fire.”

            “Have we known each other long enough for you to consider me a loved one?” Ainsley wondered out loud.

            Charlotte and Emily could find nothing to argue in that point. As they passed Ainsley on their way out, Charlotte stretched up on tiptoe to whisper – accidentally loudly enough that Esmé could hear – “If she gives you trouble, we’ll give her trouble right back!”

            Then the twins were gone, leaving Ainsley and Esmé alone in the bathroom.

            “I’m so glad we have this time to talk,” Esmé began. “You see, there’s a little matter I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

            “This isn’t about the fire,” Ainsley realized.

            “Oh, however did you guess?” Esmé droned sarcastically. “It’s about your work ethic. My darling Olaf hinted to me that you might be…less than enthusiastic about some of the work he’s tasked you with. You wouldn’t happen to be suffering from a troubled conscience, would you?”  
            “Actually, to be honest, that did bother me for a while,” Ainsley confessed, “but I think I’m finally getting more used to situations that test my morals.”

            “You had better be,” Esmé growled. “Because if you’re holding Olaf back for petty reasons, well, that simply wouldn’t be good for the team at large. You’d better find it within you to keep chasing the scheme, so to speak. Or else…” She smiled, knowing she was about to bring out her most powerful card. “Why, I can’t quite guarantee the safety of Hooky.”

            “You mean Fernald,” Ainsley corrected, blood running cold.

            “Who knows what accidents might befall him?” Esmé went on. “Of course, I’m doing my very best to keep an eye on him and protect him from harm. But if I have to expend energy making sure you’re doing your work, any number of terrible things might happen to him. He could end up losing a much more vital body part than his hands.”

            “You mean you’ll make something terrible happen to him if I don’t comply,” Ainsley rephrased.

            “Do I look like the sort of person who would do such a thing?” Esmé posed, giving a dramatic shrug. “I’m just giving you some food for thought. Oh, and just in case you’re getting any ideas, if you LEAVE, then Hooky will most CERTAINLY meet with a terrible fate without you there to protect him. Are we on the same page?”

            Frozen to the spot, Ainsley breathlessly managed, “We are.”

            “Good,” Esmé said, striding up to Ainsley and giving them a condescending pat on the cheek. “Now do get changed and come meet us at the car, unless you want to keep playing the role of Nurse Lucafont at the carnival.”

            She was more than pleased with herself as she slunk out of the bathroom. Now there was just the matter of getting the message to the other side of the equation.

            It took Ainsley several minutes to figure out how to move again.

 

* * *

 

            There hardly seemed an appropriate time to warn Fernald of what Esmé had threatened. Ainsley couldn’t catch time alone with him since they all gathered in the car, and from there, several other extenuating circumstances caused Ainsley to completely forget about the incident, ranging from Count Olaf’s terrifying drive while irate to being utterly inebriated on boxed wine kept in the trunk of the car. It briefly occurred to Ainsley to bring it up the next morning, but by then, Olaf had already set Fernald on a long list of tasks in order to prepare the House of Freaks for their performance, hosted by Olaf, the most mediocre showman. The actual performance kept everyone’s mind occupied; Olaf’s meltdown later did much the same.

            While the entire troupe, minus Esmé (citing a dirt allergy that was quite obviously false), was busied digging a pit in the center of the big top at Olaf’s behest, Ainsley finally recalled the incident and realized there would scarcely be a better time to relay the news. “I just realized I’m severely dehydrated,” they announced to the group at large. “I’m going to go find water.” After a pause, “Fernald, you also look severely dehydrated.”

            “You know what?” Fernald replied. “I just realized I am in fact dehydrated! We had better go look for water together.”

            “Bring back a bottle for me, okay?” Bolton asked.

            Charlotte, having picked up on the code Ainsley was using, smacked Bolton lightly on the upper arm.

            “Oh,” Bolton realized.

            In an empty side tent, Fernald made sure he and Ainsley were alone, with no listening ears, before pulling the front flap closed. “What’s going on?” he asked.

            “You should probably know about a very disturbing conversation I had with Esmé Squalor back at the Last Chance,” Ainsley began.

            “As if I needed more reasons to be annoyed with her,” Fernald groaned. “What did she say to you? She didn’t THREATEN you, did she?”

            “No,” Ainsley replied, already knowing Fernald wouldn’t take what came next well. But it was imperative that he knew. “Actually, she…threatened you.”

            “She WHAT?”

            “If I held things up any more,” Ainsley went on. “I think she figured us out too, and that worst-case scenario we were afraid of is totally happening.”

            “What did she SAY?” Fernald asked.

            “Just that if I either held back or left, she’d arrange an ‘accident’ to happen to you,” Ainsley clarified.

            “I’d like to see her try,” Fernald grumbled.

            “I wouldn’t underestimate her,” Ainsley reminded him. “You know what she did to the Library of Records. If she can beat up an entire library, she can probably hurt you.”

            Fernald had to remind himself to breathe slowly as he processed this information. “Don’t worry about me,” he said at last. “I’ll figure this out. For now, just focus on the show.”

            “What if…” Ainsley said unsurely. “What if you left?”

            “Me?” Fernald repated. “Leave?”

            “It’s not like I want you gone,” Ainsley clarified, “but if you left the troupe now, you’d be safe from her. Then it wouldn’t actually matter what I did.”

            “You think I’m leaving you alone with her after that?” Fernald shot back. “No! Never! I said I wouldn’t leave you behind and I meant it! Besides, this was our place first! If anyone should leave, it’s her!”

            “You’re not planning to do anything to her, are you?” Ainsley asked with concern.

            “No,” Fernald stated. “I couldn’t. The boss loves her. And that means there has to be something good about her, right? There has to be another way around all this. Just…please don’t worry about me.”

            “I can’t just not be worried about you,” Ainsley said softly. “I love you.”

            “I…I need time to think,” Fernald stated. “Why don’t you head back?”

            “It would look less suspicious that way anyway,” Ainsley realized. “And if I’m not digging the pit, that might count as slacking off.”

            Fernald looked Ainsley dead in the eye. “It’s going to be fine,” he insisted. “I’ll figure this out.”

            “I’ll keep thinking, too,” Ainsley said as they moved toward the tent entrance.

            Fernald was left alone in the tent, having only enough time to process what Ainsley had related to him before he suddenly was not alone anymore.

            “Hooky!” Esmé greeted as she burst into the tent.

            “Please don’t call me that,” Fernald grunted.

            “What a pleasant surprise!” Esmé gushed. “I didn’t expect to find you here in such an out-of-the-way place!”

            Fernald knew she’d been watching him and had probably awaited the opportunity to catch him alone, but said nothing of the subject. “I was just looking for water.”

            “And I was looking for you!” Esmé said in a tone dripping with false adoration. “I just wanted to give you a little advice. See, it’s come to my attention that just maybe, you might have thought about wanting to leave our little family to do something else. Perhaps go after this sister that hack fortune-teller mentioned – “

            “I’m not going anywhere,” Fernald asserted. “But let me guess. You’re here to tell me that if I fly the coop, you’re going to hurt Ainsley.”

            Esmé blinked and flinched, taken off guard. “Really,” she eventually managed, “I had a whole speech planned out about a terrible accident befalling someone tall, ditzy, and blessed with a luxurious auburn mane. Did you have to cut to the chase so quickly?”

            “It won’t work,” Fernald told her. “I’m not leaving. But more importantly, I’m not letting you do anything to them.”

            “Oh, really?” Esmé stepped closer to Fernald, her eyes lighting up with cruel thoughts. “And what are you going to do to stop me?”

            “I…well…I…”

            The longer Esmé had her eyes fixed directly upon Fernald’s, the less confident Fernald felt. She didn’t need to spell out all she was capable of; he could read it in those eyes.

            “I do so hate that it’s come to this,” Esmé said with a forced pout. “We were such a happy family together.”

            “The only thing that’s changed about it is…” Fernald was about to say “you,” but those burning eyes warned him to stop.

            “I want to make myself perfectly clear,” Esmé growled. “If any single one of you holds me back before that sugar bowl is in my hands, I will not be as kind as I’ve been.”

            “…Right,” Fernald said softly, his voice faltering.

            “Are we clear?” Esmé asked.

            “You really are scary,” Fernald murmured.

            He worried she would snap at that insult, but instead, her smile became wider. “And don’t you forget it, Hooky, darling.”

            She turned on a heel and was gone in a breeze.

            “We’re in trouble,” Fernald muttered to himself before exiting the tent himself.

 

* * *

 

            The last day the troupe spent at the Caligari Carnival, Fernald and Ainsley both noticed Olaf guiding Beverly and Elliott (as the pair thought of them) into the now abandoned tent of Madame Lulu, the death of whom still left a sour taste in the mouths of everyone except Olaf and Esmé.

            “I wonder what they’re doing in there,” Ainsley muttered with a glance toward the tent.

            “Who knows?” Fernald replied.

            The answer came from behind them both: “Why, Olaf is encouraging them to burn down the entire carnival.”

            Ainsley and Fernald did an about-face to see Esmé Squalor approaching. “And I must say, making them set the fire is one of the most delicious ideas my dear Olaf has had since we reunited.”

            “Is there some kind of reason they need to be the ones to set the fire?” Fernald asked.

            “I’m guessing it’s an initiation ritual to align them more properly with our goals,” Ainsley supposed.

            Esmé gave them both blank looks. “You really haven’t figured it out,” she sighed.

            “Figured what out?” Fernald and Ainsley said as one.

            “They’re – “ Esmé closed her eyes and shook her head. “They’re the Baudelaires. The new freaks are the Baudelaires. The two-headed ones are the older boy and girl, and the filthy wolf baby is the smaller one. You didn’t notice this whole time?”

            “They’re the BAUDELAIRES?” Fernald said in utter shock.

            “I actually find that implausible,” Ainsley added.

            “And yet you find fortune-telling completely plausible,” Esmé sighed. “I can’t – I can’t even believe I’m having to explain this.”

            “So what now?” Fernald asked. “Are we going to have the Baudelaires join our scheme? Because that seems counterproductive to our usual goals.”

            “I mean, technically that would be capturing them,” Ainsley pointed out. “Maybe Olaf finally figured out the value of working in cooperation.”

            “We’re not actually inviting them into the troupe, you id – “ Esmé inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “You…wonderful yet occasionally frustrating accomplices. We’re going to hook their wagon to the back of our car. Just the Baudelaires. The other freaks will ride in the trunk, seeing how Olaf and I actually like them. Then, when we get at least halfway up the Mortmain Mountains, we’re going to cut them loose so they fall to their deaths.” She scowled. “You don’t have a problem with this, do you?”

            “Even Sunny?” Fernald asked in concern.

            Esmé glowered at him.

            “That’s the littlest one’s name, right?” Fernald went on. “Sunny. I don’t want her to be part of this. I want her to be alive.”

            “Oh, don’t worry,” Esmé told Fernald. “Olaf and I have special plans for the baby. Though I’m surprised you care. And here I thought Ainsley was the only one suffering from a troubled conscience.”

            “I’m over it,” Ainsley insisted. “If Olaf wants to throw the other two children to their deaths…then I guess that’s his business.”

            “Why do you still not sound so sure?” Esmé pried. “I don’t think I need to remind either of you what awaits you if you turn your back on us. I spelled it out quite CLEARLY to each of you.”

            Fernald and Ainsley’s gazes sank toward the ground.

            “If either one of you should get cold feet,” Esmé insisted, “well, you might as well get one last kiss in now, because you’re going to have to kiss each other goodbye.”

            “Not if we leave together.”

            Ainsley was surprised to hear Fernald’s sudden suggestion. It seemed so bold, so out of the question. They hadn’t even come up with that solution of their own steam. Olaf’s troupe was their life, and it had been Fernald’s even more so. It seemed audacious to even entertain such a notion.

            Perhaps, however, a little audacity was needed at a time like this.

            “That’s…right,” Ainsley realized.

            “If we leave together,” Fernald insisted, “you can’t do anything to either of us!”

            “Oh…” Esmé’s face contorted in mock sympathy. “You poor, poor dears. You really think that will solve your problems? What do you really think is out there for you? Surely, Hooky, you must have kept track of how many times you were mistaken for one of the House of Freaks.”

            “Don’t call me that,” Fernald muttered.

            “If you try to enter the real world,” Esmé went on, “I’m sorry to say that’s all you’ll be seen as. They’ll take one look at your arms and declare you a freak. Who would hire you to do anything of worth? Who would think you were capable of anything? And as for YOU.” She looked Ainsley dead in the eye. “No one may have called you a freak during the show, but I think you and I both know what the world really thinks about YOU.”

            She let them both consider this point in silence for a moment before continuing, “We were all so happy together before. Why would you want to spoil what we once had? Everything can go back to the way it was so long as you stay with us and stop letting those backward moral compasses of yours mandate your performance. Besides, if you go now, the Baudelaires will still die. We’ll kill them. So in the end, what you do makes absolutely no difference. You can’t do any good in the world. All you’ll be doing is hiding your eyes from the bad. And deep down, don’t you really want to be part of the bad? Don’t you want to be able to express yourselves through vandalism? To get revenge on the people who’ve wronged you? To pursue great fortune through minimal work? Don’t try and convince me you’re not the sort. I may not have known you very long at all, but I know enough about the sort of people you both are.”

            “She makes a lot of really convincing arguments,” Ainsley admitted. “I’m sorry, Fernald, but I don’t really think leaving is the best idea after all.”

            “Neither do I,” Fernald sighed. “I’m starting to regret having brought it up. You know, this whole venture may have ended in a lot more murder than we originally signed up for, but it’s still the place where we belong.”

            “I’m glad you’ve come around on the matter,” Esmé said with a proud smile. “Oh, and by the way, I know fully what the two of you get up to when no one else is watching, but dear Olaf is still in the dark, figuratively speaking. So I would keep up the charade if I were you. He might not be as lenient as I’ve been.”

            This elicited silence as a reaction, but a silence Esmé could grasp the meaning of as clearly as if it were words.

            “See you on the trip up?” Esmé said with a grin. “Think of the fun you’ll have initiating our three newest members to the group, after all!” She backed away, then turned to stride toward the car.

            “I didn’t know you felt that strongly about Sunny,” Ainsley said once Esmé was out of earshot. “I probably should have guessed.”

            “Well, she’s fun to play cards with,” Fernald said casually.

            “Does this have anything to do with that sister Madame Lulu said depended on you?” Ainsley guessed.

            “Actually,” Fernald admitted with a sigh, “yes. It’s a long story, and it’s one I’m going to have to tell you when we’re not hurrying up to drive away from a burning-down carnival.” He really had so little business promising Ainsley he wouldn’t leave them behind, he thought, when he had already left his sister behind, and he must have promised her he wouldn’t do so at one point. He steeled himself, resolving to keep that promise better in the future.

            “I’m ready to listen whenever,” Ainsley replied.

            “When we have more time.”

            They began to walk to the car together. “I kind of hate how right Esmé was about us,” Ainsley lamented. “I know I really don’t feel like I belong anywhere but here. And despite that part of me that keeps cringing at committing murder and other similar atrocities, there’s another part of me that’s really glad I don’t have to uphold a lot of moral guidelines set down by general society.”

            “I feel the same,” Fernald confided. “Maybe that’s why we work so well together. I think that has to be how we get through this.”

            “How?”

            “Together,” Fernald clarified. “I’m here for you, Ainsley.” They reached over, looping an arm through Ainsley’s.

            Ainsley took advantage of this to pull Fernald closer to them as they walked. “I’m right here when you need me,” they vowed.

 

* * *

 

            There is no doubt that this world is fraught with tragedy, and at some point, you are going to have to live through tragedy. Perhaps you will be mildly inconvenienced, or perhaps you will be plunged into a situation of pure hopelessness when it seems the only light to shine in the dark is that of an all-consuming fire that threatens to burn you alive. At times like this, there are many things you can try to take comfort in and few that actually work.

            One of the most effective is knowing that somewhere, you have someone that supports you. Perhaps that someone is your sibling, who might be your partner in crime, a long-lost relation you left behind when your family makeup changed, or someone going through the same atrocities you are and falling down the same slippery slope as yourself. Or perhaps that someone is a romantic partner: an old flame you rekindled, a beautiful and intelligent librarian you have only known for a short time but are very certain you truly love, or a fellow villain who you realize actually has been suffering from a troubled conscience much the way you have, even if it took the threat to someone reminiscent of his sibling to bring out that side.

            What is for certain is that as the by now battered car belonging to Count Olaf and his band of associates sped ever upward and the cart containing Klaus and Violet Baudelaire plunged in the exact opposite direction, Ainsley was not thinking “I’ll be fine” in order to keep calm. They were thinking “Fernald will be fine.”

            Fernald, on the other hand, was thinking something closer to “I hope Ainsley will be fine, and if they are not, I hope I can do something to alleviate their discomfort.”

            They held onto these thoughts, using each other as a sort of mental anchor to hold onto in case things should get worse. And it seemed as though the great tragedy of the world would be less weighty if they bore it together. Even if things got worse, they would have each other.

            And things certainly weren’t going to get any better anytime soon.


End file.
